


come what may

by flynncarsen



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Penelope (2006) Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24520561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flynncarsen/pseuds/flynncarsen
Summary: "It's not the power of the curse, it's the power you give the curse."A Penelope Alternate Universe, complete with conversations through a mirror, singing lessons, and secrets revealed.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	come what may

**Author's Note:**

> not betaed! so I apologize for any and all the mistakes ahead.
> 
> also just as a warning! I took some liberties with the story to fit these characters better, so it's not exactly like the movie but the formula remains the same.

Christine Daaé had been cursed before she was even born. 

The long line of Daaé's over the years had accumulated a vast amount of wealth to become a blue blooded, societally known, name. Her great-great-great-grandfather had fallen in love with a mere servant girl. But, when he had told the family of his plans to marry her he was informed that such a thing could never happen through their uproaring fits of laughter. 

Her great-great-great grandfather ended up marrying someone that was far superior. 

And the servant girl took her own life, unable to deal with the pain of a heart broken. 

The girl’s mother, on the other hand, was the town witch. The night of her daughter’s death she appeared on the Daaé’s lawn determined to make them pay for taking what she had loved so much. She commanded that the next Daaé daughter be born with no face at all since they had all forgotten the face of hers. 

“And only when one of your own kind can claim this daughter as their own, ‘till death do they part, will the curse be broken!” she had declared, spilling her own blood onto their property. 

Time, as it does, passed. 

Generations of Daaé sons were born. 

And then, finally, there was Christine. 

Born, covered in blood and other bodily fluids, was the only way the doctors had been able to identify she was even there at all. She cried, made noise, her movements could be felt within the nurses hands, but she could not be seen. Not her fingers, toes, or face. 

Born with no face at all, Christine Daaé was invisible. 

And, as one would think, raising a child that was invisible had its difficulties. 

Doctors and nurses struggled with the, usually, routine procedures that came with newborns. They had placed powder on her in order to be able to see her at all. When they swaddled her and brought her back to her parents it was not like the usual reunions they witnessed. There was more sorrow than there was happiness at the sight of their child because, well, all they could really see was the blankets wrapped around her and the little hat that indicated where her head was. They could not comment on her pink cheeks or shape of her face. 

Only her coos and cries could be heard. 

When they held her they were able to gather more about their child. Her soft skin, her thin layer of hair, how small she truly was. She was their child in that moment and suddenly all their thoughts went to how they could cure her of this curse that she did not deserve. 

There was no practical way to go about it, painting or tattooing or putting powder on her skin to make her visible was either pointless or plain torture. 

She wore clothes, and that was enough of an indicator as to where she was, but it was not the same. 

They would need to break the curse. Abide by the witch’s spell and they would be able to see their daughter. 

But first, they had to deal with the public. 

When claims of neglect came from an anonymous source the tabloids took off with the story of the Daaé’s being horrific parents to their newborn child. A police officer was sent to their door. 

Nadir Khan had just been able to adorn the badge when the case came across his cubicle. The precinct had thought nothing of it, knowing that newspapers and people were not to be well trusted, but the source had come to them first and foremost, so the claims would have to be investigated. It was procedure. 

He had knocked on the door for the father to answer, following him inside when invited, to inform him of what he was doing there. The father had seemed a reasonable man. The mother, though, was less so. No amount of persuasion would allow him entry to see the child. They gave him tea, told him there was nothing for him to worry about as far as their daughter was concerned, and politely saw him to the door. 

Soon after he had filed his report the rumors had dropped, the source would not be pressing charges, and life moved on. But Nadir Khan would never forget his first case, and he would not forget Christine Daaé. 

When she was six years old Chritine’s mother died in a car accident that was due to the vast amount of paparazzi following her every move. She had been trying to flee from their prying eyes and lost control of the wheel. It had been a tragic affair and Christine had not even been allowed to go outside to see her mother be buried.

After that, Gustave Daaé had no intention of letting the only thing left in his life suffer for his name, too. His life was then dedicated to fulfilling his wife’s wish: the ability to see their child smile. 

Christine was kept away from anyone who could not be trusted, his fear of the media and public’s opinion on her scaring him to the point of not allowing her outside of their home. They had already taken his wife from him, he wouldn’t let them take his only daughter, too. This is what he told her whenever she asked why she could not go outside. He told her that it wasn’t safe out there, that there were horrible things that happened outside of the walls of their home, and he could only keep her safe if she stayed there until the curse was broken. 

She played by herself and with the new nanny who insisted they call her Mamma Valérius to which only Christine complied. 

Her father prepared his daughter to be a suitable bride, for this was the only way he and his wife had thought to end the curse. Christine would need to marry one of their  _ own kind _ , and it would take much more than the usual pretty face and name to convince a man of their status to take her as their wife. She couldn’t attend school, private or public, so he taught her himself in all the needed subjects and even those that might make her more appealing to her prospective husband. She learned English, Swedish, French, and German. She read everything she could. She learned to sew, knit, and croche. She could cook and bake, paint and dance, though he did not know if she was doing it all correctly, but it seemed so since her feet had never hit his own.

He told her stories every night, her favorite being the Angel of Music that she requested from him more often than not. And he would play her the violin, his talent that he had taken up due to his own father’s insistence to have something outside of their work. Music was a Daaé tradition, and Christine was no exception. Her voice was a natural gift, and she begged and begged her father for voice lessons but he would not give in. Instead he taught her the violin and they would play together in her attic room in the afternoons. 

When she turned 18 Gustave hired a matchmaker for the rich and famous, La Sorelli. 

Year by year men came and fled at the sight of clothing that moved on its own and a voice that came from nowhere. They were then brought back to the house to sign a gag order to keep them from telling anyone about what it was they had seen. Or did not see. 

Seven years later, the Vicomte de Changy would be standing in front of the one-way-glass mirror, asking into the microphone for her to come out into the room. They had been speaking to one another for weeks now, he wanted to talk to her properly. 

“Please, Christine, I know I can break this curse,” he told her earnestly, for that is all he had ever been when coming to visit her. It was the first time Christine had ever felt she had a friend when he had made a joke and she had laughed and he had joined her until they were both out of breath. 

Raoul was a lovely man. Always so bright and cheerful to be standing in that room alone, talking to a disembodied voice. Every morning he had entered with the same greeting and every morning it had brought Christine such delight. Only for it to drop off in despair as she knew that Raoul would no doubt run, too, if she were to do as he asked her everyday before he left. She did not want him to leave in such a way, she enjoyed their conversations. He always talked about his life and his brother and all the wonderful things of the outside world he had experienced. He did not have the same poetic ways of describing it like her books could, but his enthusiasm made up for his lack of depiction. 

But she also knew that she would not be able to marry him should she hide forever. 

“He cannot keep you locked away in here,” he told her, pacing in front of the mirror with one hand at his hip and the other moving as he spoke. “I’ve told him countless times to let you go and yet he won’t listen. You are a young woman, you don’t deserve to be treated like this!” 

“Oh, Raoul, he’s only doing what he thinks is best for me.” She sighed, tired of having this argument with him. It seemed like the only thing he wanted to bring up as of late. 

“He’s only doing what’s best for himself!” 

“He is  _ my _ father and I will ask you not to speak of him like that,” she said, feeling her voice snap a bit. Raoul lifted his head at least, having the thought to look a bit ashamed. “He has taken good care of me all these years. It’s not his fault his ancestor did what he did or that I was cursed. He’s only been trying to make it up for me all these years.” 

“By keeping you as a prisoner?” To that she didn’t respond, too shocked to think of what to say. Raoul nodded. “See! Come with me, Christine. I can take you away from this place. I can keep you safe and guarded from the press while still allowing you to live your life. And then, when we’re married, everything will be as it should!” 

“You talk a big game, but you haven’t even seen me.”

“No one can see you, Christine, I thought that was the point.”

“I don’t want to leave, Raoul. Not like this.”

“That is your father talking! Has he done anything else to you to make you stay here?” Raoul pressed closer to the mirror, leaning his palms against the mantle of the fireplace. “I can bring the police, Christine. All I need is evidence and I can get you out of here. Just give me something and I promise, you’ll never have to see this place again.”

At this she gasped in horror, sitting back on her bench. She was highly offended for both herself and her father. “How can you think such a thing? My father has done nothing of the sort!” 

“How would you know, Christine? You’ve only known life as it is in there!” 

“I think you should leave, Raoul.” She stood up, fixing her skirt, though he could not see it. 

“Christine-”

“Thank you for coming all this time, I’ve appreciated the company.” 

She had no more to say to him, despite his protests and knocking on the glass. Christine left her room to find the kitchen where her father, Sorelli, and Mama Valérius were all sitting with half empty mugs. On the small screen that showed the room that the suitors were brought to, Raoul was fighting against their two security agents, Mason and Tyler, that had been hired after that man before Raoul had broken Sorelli’s hand trying to get away. 

She went to her father who jumped a little as she placed her hand on his shoulder, but he covered it with his own. 

“I’m sorry, Christine,” he sighed. “I thought for sure he was the one.”

“He does care about her a great deal,” Sorelli said, biting off a piece of a cookie. “He’s just a bit overprotective. Sound like anyone else here we know?”

At that Christine snorted and left her father’s side to grab a cookie for her own. 

“Wait,” her father sat up, eyes wide, “did we make him sign the order?” 

___

Raoul de Changy was a man with good intentions and a heart made of gold. 

So, when the woman he loved was trapped in a fortress of high gates and an overbearing father that could not have just been the perfect figure everyone seemed to paint him as, he knew he had to do something about it.

When he was not allowed entry into the Daaé house the next morning he went straight to the police station to retell his story. No one, it seemed, wanted to believe him. An invisible girl trapped by her father? They had all tried to send him on his way. And when he did not comply they forcefully escorted him out. 

Just as he was being guided out the door the station’s head detective was coming back inside from his lunch break. Hearing the man’s ravings about Daaé mistreating his daughter, Nadir Khan stopped the officers and asked de Changy to follow him. 

Inside his office Raoul told him everything, top to bottom. When he stopped his breathing had become quite heavy and Detective Khan was sitting, idly, in his chair. 

“You believe me,” Raoul said. It was not a question. The detective nodded. He leaned down, opening the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out his very first case file. 

“Years ago, when Christine Daaé had first been born, someone called in to report that they thought the Daaé’s were not treating their daughter right. Neglect and abuse claims came up and they sent me to go look in on them. Her mother wouldn’t allow me to see the child.” The detective sighed, falling back in his chair to rest his hands across his middle. “I gave my report but nothing became of it.”

“Until now! I know he’s keeping her there against her will. There’s no telling what else he’s done to her or has told her to keep her there under his eye. Please, you have to get her out of there.”

“Sir, my believing your story is not enough for a warrant or action of any kind. We will need proof this time if we are going to do anything for her. Do you have that?” 

“...no.” 

“And you’ve said you’re no longer welcome there, are you?”

Raoul scoffed, “If this morning is anything to go by? No, certainly not. He knows I was breaking through to her, he’ll never let me back now.” 

Nadir nodded, “Then we’ll have to find someone who can go undercover, put them in with the agency who sent you-”

“No, that won’t work either.” Raoul made a face at the detective’s questioning eyes. “It’s a part of the curse, they only see old money. Blue blood types. And I highly doubt any of them will help us, it’s not as if we can give them any incentive, they don’t need money.”

“No,” the detective agreed. “But, down and out blue bloods do.” 

___

Nadir and Raoul approached the theatre only a few days later that week. Both were dressed suitably for the venue, though Raoul’s attire was considerably better off the older gentleman’s well worn suit. They would blend in just fine, though. No one would be paying attention to the detective with the Vicomte there anyways. 

They had sat through the show in the Vicomte’s box, and when it was over, Nadir approached one of the managers who was speaking with several people. No doubt trying to find new patrons of them. 

“Good evening,” he said, bowing his head slightly to the man. “Would you happen to know where I can find an Angel Campion?” 

“Campion...Campion.” The man thought for a moment before his mouth and eyes widened in understanding. “Oh yes! You should find him in Box Five.” 

“Thank you,” Nadir replied, turning away. It took him some time to wade through the crowd of people trying to exit the theatre but eventually he came upon the door he had been searching for. He hoped that Campion hadn’t left already. 

Though it did strike him as odd that the man with such little fortune would attend an Opera but he would never pretend to know those who had grown up in this world, even those with a good heart such as the Vicomte. 

When he turned the corner to the corridor that held Box Five he found himself almost crashing into a man with two women on each respective arm. 

“Whoa!” the man laughed, smiling up at Nadir when they had all righted themselves. The women giggled, too. Nadir only had to take one look at the three of them to know that the man was there only because the ladies had allowed him to be. His clothing, in comparison to their lavish dresses, were cheap, stained, and wrinkled. At least, Nadir thought, he was not the worst dressed here after all. “You alright there?” 

“Yes, I’m sorry, I was–” Nadir looked up, his eyes catching movement just over the man’s shoulder. A man was stepping out of the door of Box Five. He was tall and in dark clothing, a wide brimmed hat pulled down just so in order to hide his face. 

“You sure you’re alright, mate?” the man asked once more, an eyebrow lifting. Nadir blinked, glancing back and forth between the three of them and the quickly retreating figure of the man he knew had to be his target. 

“Yes, yes, please excuse me.” He stepped around the trio, “Enjoy the rest of your evening!” 

“We will!” 

Nadir picked up his pace as he followed after the man. When he did not seem to want to slow down, he called out to him. “Excuse me! Sir!” 

The man froze in place, seemingly caught off guard by being spoken to in such a manner but Nadir did not care in that moment. He had not come all this way to be denied. Not when a girl’s well being was at stake. 

“Can I help you, Detective?” 

“Yes, I wanted to ask–” Nadir cut himself off as he approached, stopping his steps short, too. He eyed the man’s back. “...how did you know I was a Detective?” 

“Your holstered weapon is not hard to miss,” the man said. “Am I under arrest for something?”

“What?” Nadir let out a small airy laugh, waving his hand. “No, no. I have a proposition for you.”

The man turned then and Nadir gasped.

He wore a mask that covered the upper half of his face, only his mouth visible, the white colour of it stark against the dark attire he sported. The hat did some favors in covering it up, but now that he was facing him fully it was not hard to miss. His face hardened at Nadir’s reaction.

“What do you know of me?”

Nadir cleared his throat, doing his best to not focus on the mask. He knew, better than most, why men wore masks. To hide their identity or to hide something else and judging by the slight disfigurement of the man’s too thin lips, Nadir could only guess as to what had happened. It was no wonder the Campion family had tossed him aside. 

“I did a little research into your past. It seems that a few bad loans and investments in the past couple of years have rendered the fortune your family spent generations building into almost nothing at all.” 

At first Campion had seemed stiff and troubled by what Nadir was saying but then the man laughed. The deep sound emanated from his chest and shook his head. “I do think you have the wrong man, Detective.”

“Khan!” someone called out into the corridor making the man before him go rigid once more and raise his eyes. Nadir turned, too, only to find Raoul making his way toward them. The detective took a step to the side to give Raoul entrance to the conversation. He looked taken aback as he made eye contact with the man but did not remark upon the mask, much to Nadir’s relief. He could see how tense the man had gotten at Raoul’s presence which was another strange quirk. In his experience it was police officers who made people more uncomfortable, and for good reason. Perhaps it was because it was Raoul’s kind that had turned him out that made him look so defensive. 

“Is this our man?” Raoul asked, looking to Nadir who nodded in confirmation. He smiled, “So you’ll do it then?”

“I’m afraid the detective has yet to mention what it is you wish me to do, exactly.” 

Raoul launched into the story, his passion and revere for Christine apparent in every word. It moved Nadir, even hearing it the second time, but there seemed to be a lack of any emotion at all on Campion’s part. Except perhaps annoyance. 

“Your story is very...touching,” Campion said after Raoul had finished. “But, as I told your detective, you have the wrong man.”

“Please. You must help us!” 

“Sir-”

“If helping a woman to escape a terrible fate is not motivation enough then perhaps money will persuade you?” This seemed to catch Campion’s attention. “I will pay you heartily if you help us.” 

___

The call for men to the Daaé’s household was put out only a few days later. Christine had requested that any and all suitors come in on the same day and Sorelli had gotten to work on gathering the files and sending out invitations. 

Raoul and Nadir had taken Campion into the station the day before. They had a floor plan of the parts of the house Raoul had been allowed in and all the information he could remember on Christine and her father. Nadir had worked him through the paperwork and showed him the wire he would be wearing. Campion had been quiet through all of this, but when asked to repeat what he had learned it all came out word-for-word to show that he had not only been paying attention but was a quick learner. 

The only time he had shown any kind of emotion was when Raoul had ventured to ask about the mask. He had gone rigid and gotten rather curt with his replies. In the end he told them that it was not for his comfort but the comfort of others and that had been the end of the discussion.

The following morning they had agreed to meet on the street outside the Daaé Estate. Campion had knocked on the van, just as instructed, and was given the wire to put on. Both Nadir and Raoul gave him wishes of luck but the man did not acknowledge them passed a small grunt. They had both expressed their doubts about the father entertaining the idea that his daughter could marry a man who wore a mask. But Raoul had pointed out that they must be desperate at this point to allow all these men into his house and that a mask would be the least of their worries. 

___

Erik entered the Daaé mansion for the second time in his life feeling quite pleased with himself. The detective and the fop had not suspected anything and here he was ready to find whatever evidence it was they needed and be on his way.

The fop had given him the amount he had bargained for, nothing too high but he had not come here for nothing. The amount had been the rest of the money he needed to buy out the theater from those two oafs who ran it now. Soon all the paperwork would be signed, the keys would be his, and the theater would be given the proper management it deserved. All these years Erik had stalked around the halls and basement doing everything in his power to ensure the only home he had ever known would not be run into the ground by the idiots who thought themselves artists and would inevitably pass it off to the next fool who thought the same thing. 

They never listened to him, the man who had been there through it all. 

The theater was dying, and he had thought there was nothing to be done for it until the detective had called out to him. 

He had thought that his life of freedom had finally come to an end. The detective had no doubt been there to arrest him for the crimes he had committed in the life he had lived before escaping to the theater. Before music had settled properly in his soul. All of his careful work and planning to remain hidden had been for nothing, and he would spend the rest of his days paying for what he had done. 

But he did not. He did not even know who Erik was, thinking him to be one like one of the patrons that riddled the halls. It would have been flattering but Erik knew better than that. The reaction to his mask was not unfamiliar, but it was grounding for him in the situation. Then the fop had found them and offered him the money that he could not refuse. 

All he had to do was find some sort of evidence that this woman’s father was abusing her or keeping her as a prisoner and he could get on with his life. It would be simple, he had done enough spying without being noticed in his time. A life in the shadows would teach anyone what to look for and how not to be seen. 

The debriefing the two had put him through was grueling and Erik had sat in silence through it all to keep from saying anything rude so that he would not hinder this deal. As soon as the check had gone through and the fop’s money was his own, Erik had done his own research. Security the Daaé’s might have had, but it was easy for a man like him to sink into the shadows again and find entry. 

The floor plan the fop had given him was crude, but correct. That night he had learned the space inside and out, found hiding places for himself, and watched the father as he sat in the dining room looking down at the files of men that would be coming for his daughter.

He looked tired, not angry. There was a mug beside him filled with tea, not a glass of alcohol. Erik studied him for a moment longer but when the man had begun to cry Erik had turned away, giving him the privacy one would expect to have in their own home. 

He could not find the woman in the house. Wherever her quarters were they were well hidden, even from him. But he also did not want to go about opening every single door. They squeaked and the floorboards beneath him were getting louder and louder as the night turned quieter. 

He returned to the theater that night, the basement waiting for his return. He read everything he could find on the family going back generations to piece together the story. Erik had let out a long sigh when he had finished, closing the laptop slowly as he stared off into the distance. 

It would seem that even rich people had their tragedies. 

When he entered, for the second time in the daylight, a small woman in height, but certainly not in size, showed him in. She eyed him critically but he dared not show any signs of weakness to anyone, though she unnerved him for reasons he could not name. Inside was another woman, much taller and far younger, writing on a clipboard. 

She looked up at him and startled, the files in her hands dropping. 

Well, it wasn’t the worst reaction he had ever gotten.

“My apologies, madame, allow me.” He crouched down and began to gather the files together into a neat stack.

“You’re fine! I’m so sorry, I-” she cleared her throat, her voice coming back with a much more professional tone. “Who, may I ask, are you?”

“I am Angel Campion, the agency sent me,” Erik repeated his line as he had been told to do so numerous times by the detective and the fop. 

“Right...Campion.” The woman took down his name and he handed her back the files. He was then handed a file and a pen with the explanation that it was only a gag order, he was not signing any marriage license already. “You don’t talk, we don’t talk. It’s very simple.”

He had no trouble in signing it, the name was not his. She smiled brightly at him when he handed it back and took him up a long flight of stairs. A double door was pointed out to him, “You’ll be waiting in here until she’s ready for you.” 

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head slightly. The woman nodded. He could feel her eyes on him, falling up and down his person. She was still smiling at him when he glanced her way, as though nothing had changed, and returned back down the way they had come.

Inside the room were about a dozen men, all of whom Erik loathed on sight. They no doubt had all gone to some prestigious school, had played some prestigious sport, and had some prestigious name that had allowed them to do anything and everything they had ever wanted in their lives. They had all paused to look his way as he shut the door and he dared them with his eyes to say something to him. Instead they all turned away, getting back to their conversations that had been interrupted.

He took a step further into the room and suddenly the piece that sat in his ear gave a high squealing sound. Erik grimaced, and backed out of the room once more, hoping that no one had heard the blasted thing. 

___

Christine Daaé studied all the men that were on the other side of the glass. Her father entered her room.

“Well, they’re all here. Though I still don’t know why you’ve requested such a thing, don’t you always say how much you hate  _ the Bachelor? _ ” 

“It will be faster this way, I should think,” Christine replied. Her father gave her a look of suspicion but shrugged in the end, leaving the room to return to the viewing party that was taking place in the kitchen. 

Christine approached the door to the room and opened it with one final nod to herself. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Christine, and you must be-?”

The men had all halted in their conversations to turn to look as the bookshelf had moved to reveal a floating blouse, skirt, and pair of shoes underneath. For a brief moment nothing happened, only staring and inner comprehension, and then there was a chorus of screams. The man all dashed for the door, clambering and trampling over the furniture and one another to escape. 

Inside her chest her heart squeezed tightly, though she did not allow her hurt from their reaction to show on her face. It didn’t matter, though, for no one would have been able to see it anyways. She had always enjoyed that aspect of her curse. On some occasions it was rather annoying, always having to inform her father or Sorelli or Mama Valérius that she was smiling or nodding or shaking her head or shrugging. She had gotten used to having to say what she was thinking but had grown very comfortable in the knowledge that if she was quiet she could cry all she liked, if she made no noise at all no one would know what was going on inside her head for her body could not betray her reactions. 

She went to the kitchen, which was empty, no doubt due to everyone having to make sure the stampede didn’t break anything of value. Christine gathered together food and sat down at the table, taking a fork to the chocolate cake Mama Valérius had baked yesterday for the occasion.

That was how her father found her. 

“Christine Daaé!” 

“Yes, papa?” she asked, nonchalant, as if she had no idea what he was so upset about.

“What on earth were you thinking?” 

“I told you, I was only making things easier!” 

“And what’s this? A celebration?” he gestured angrily to the cake. 

“It’s cake, papa, you had a slice this morning.”

“Christine,  _ please _ ,” her father pinched the bridge of his nose as Sorelli entered the kitchen, using a finger to swipe at the frosting on Christine’s cake. “All we need is one man. Just one!”

“And he’ll run, too! Papa, please! They always run! Always!” She cried, her exhaustion after all of these years finally leaving her through her voice. Christine stood, unable to sit still. The chair could no more hold her anger than she could. “I’m nothing but a ghost in their eyes! They will never see me as one of their own, why can you not seem to accept that, papa? After all this time, I’ve had to watch them as they ran. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

She watched her father flinch as she approached him, his eyes glancing around to where he thought her eyes might be but never making contact. “I’m sorry, Christine. I am, but you cannot lose hope.”

“Yes, I can! As much as I want to believe there’s one man who won’t be frightened of me, one man who–” her eyes glanced over her father’s shoulder to where the monitor was still on, running a live feed of the room that the suitors had just left, where a single man was standing next to the piano. 

Both Sorelli and her father turned to follow her eyes. 

“My God!” her father laughed in disbelief, rushing over to watch with Sorelli at his side. 

“Did he see?” Christine whispered, as she approached, too. The man’s hand touched the top of the piano but his eyes were looking about the room. He looked rather tall, judging by his difference to the piano that she was only a few inches taller than herself. Dressed in dark colours, aside from his dress shirt under a waistcoat, he also wore a white mask that covered his face.

How odd, Christine thought. But, then again, who was she to judge when she had no idea what her own face looked like besides what she could put together through touch and using paint upon it. 

“Well, he must have,” her father insisted. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Who is he?” Christine asked. Sorelli opened her mouth to answer but her father interrupted.

“Who  _ cares _ ? Go!”

“Yes, go!” Sorelli answered instead.

“But I-”

“Go!” they both shouted at her, startling Christine enough to jog off to her room.

When she entered, the sounds of the piano filled her room through the speakers. It took her breath away. She had never heard anything like it before and Christine had always thought herself to be very well versed in music, always having something on as she went about her day. And her father had taught her well in all the classics.

But she could not name what it was he played. It sounded so beautiful, and the skill that was behind it was astounding. Who was this man, indeed? She waited a little longer to see if she could place it. The melody ended and the man sighed, almost annoyed. He then took a moment to inspect the piano, and pulled the music folders that rested on the top from it. She didn’t know what he was going to do with it, as they were all written for the violin. 

He flipped through them quickly, shaking his head at something, but then stopped on one of the pages. He pulled it from its spot and inspected it. Then he placed everything back to where it had been and began playing. 

She recognized this song in an instant. A Swedish lullaby that her father had played for her countless times. It had been one of the first things she had requested to learn to play. How had this man seemingly transposed the song to sound so sweet on keys instead of strings? 

“You’re still here,” she said, making the notes turn sour as he lost his position at the interruption. She had not meant to startle him or make him stop, but what else was she to do? The man turned to face the wall she was behind. 

“You are very observant,” he replied, seemingly unphased.

“Did you see?” she implored. 

“See?” he asked, standing now. And, yes he was rather tall. Thin, too, but there was something else about him that seemed to counterbalance this and give him an imposing cut, out of place in that room where so many others had stood before. He placed his hands behind his back and approached, though his eyes were placed firmly on the ground so that he did not look into the mirror. She understood then, it was how elegantly he moved. Every movement, every step, it looked as though they were planned and effortless all in one take. 

Christine sighed. “You didn’t see.”

“What was it I was supposed to have seen?”

“Did you?” 

“Did I  _ what _ , Miss Daaé?” He seemed sincere in his confusion, his frustration rivaling her own now.

She huffed, crossing her arms over her middle as she sat down upon her bench. “Don’t play games.” 

“Am I the one playing games?” 

“Why are you still here?” she asked, ignoring him. 

“My apologies, madame. Would you like me to leave? I was under the impression that we were supposed to stay.” He turned his head, eyes cast to the coffee table. “Though, your hosting skills seem to have made everyone else make a run for it. Was it the lack of an offer for tea, you think?” 

How aggravating this man was! Christine almost told him yes, yes he should leave, so that she could be done with all of this. 

“How long have you played the piano?” 

He paused, his chin tipping up to look toward the door for a moment, before turning his back to her to approach the piano once more. “A while.” 

“How did you know that song?” she asked, pressing closer to the mirror as if that might give her a better view as to what he was doing. “The one you were just playing.”

“I had never heard of it before. You had the music here,” he indicated with a hand to the top of the piano where the folders still lay. 

“Those are for violin.”

“Yes,” he replied flatly. 

“But you played it on piano.”

“It would seem nothing can get past you, Miss Daaé,” he remarked, sounding very annoyed now. “Is there anything else you wish to point out? Perhaps that these walls are green or that your couch is made of leather?”

Well, he was very rude, wasn’t he? No one had ever treated her like this before. They were always overly kind, always trying to appeal to her in one way or another. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care one way or the other what she thought of him. It made her both angry and yet intrigued. In her silence he continued.

“It is your favorite, is it not?” 

She stared at him but he gave no indication that he was going to elaborate. “Will you play it again?” 

He turned his head to the side so that she could see his profile, or rather, the mask's profile. Judging by the look of what skin she could see at his neck and ears that he was rather pale. And from the state of his lips, thin and pale, too, he wasn’t hiding for the sake of his identity. His eyebrow furrowed, the mask moving against them, as he contemplated his next move, and then he did as he was asked. His playing allowed her to sink into the song, the piano pillowing in a way that the violin had only played it for what was written on the page. He managed to let her heart find more love for the song. 

She didn’t even notice she had begun to sing until he had stopped playing completely. 

“Your voice…” He turned, now looking directly at the mirror. Her eyes widened. 

“I’m– sorry. I didn’t even realize-”

“You have no need to apologize.” He stood, crossing the room in only a few strides. It was then she realized that he was not looking at the mirror at all, but the microphone that sat on the mantle. “It’s untrained, of course, but...Miss Daaé, you have an extraordinary talent.” 

“I–” she eyed him, then deflated. “You’re making fun of me, again.”

“No.” He shook his head, holding up his hands in surrender. “I can promise you that on this, I would never.”

“Oh.” Christine blinked. “Well...thank you.”

“Why have you never taken lessons?”

“For my voice?” He nodded. Christine scoffed, “You know I can’t.” 

“Ah,” he winced, and she could imagine his brows pinching together as his mask shifted. Shame touched his voice, “My apologies. I forgot about your situation.”

“Yes, my situation.” 

“If you would allow it, I would offer you my services. You do not have to leave your room, should you not want to.” He sounded so hesitant and yet eager, too. It made her heart pick up speed as she tried to understand what he meant by  _ services _ . 

“You would teach me? To sing?”

“If it would please you.” 

“That would be wonderful! We can pay you if-”

“No. The satisfaction of hearing your voice become what it should be will be payment enough.” 

She blushed, knowing it from the feeling of heat in her cheeks. “So then you’ll be back tomorrow?” 

“Is that when you would like to start?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you have your answer.” He bowed formally. “Good evening, Miss Daaé.”

After she had watched him exit the house from the window she returned to the room, gathering the music folders from the top of the piano and settled into the couch. Behind her Gustave entered the room.

“Christine? Are you alright?” he asked, picking up a chair that had been knocked over and setting it right. He rounded the couch and sat next to her. Christine turned the music to him.

“I thought he just knew, but, it says it. Right here,” she ran her finger over her name that had been printed in large letters across the top of the music sheet, little hearts littering the title in the same pink marker. Beside her, her father chuckled.

“No. But, still, of all the things he could have been, a vocal coach has come to you at last.” 

___

Erik knocked on the back door of the van. The detective opened it, eyeing him with suspicion. 

“You didn’t tell us you were a musician,” the fop said from behind him. 

“You did not ask,” Erik replied, keeping his tone neutral as he pulled the wiring out from its hiding spots within his jacket to hand back to the detective. 

“Singing lessons?” the detective asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“It gives me incentive to come back more often than simply being a suitor, does it not? And it will allow me more time in the house to find you your evidence.” 

Both men gave it another moment’s thought until they seemed to agree with Erik’s logic, much to his relief. 

“Until tomorrow then,” the fop waved. 

Erik returned to the theater and fell into his chair in front of the hearth with a heavy sigh. Just what in the hell had he gotten himself into? 

When the earpiece had thrown it had been moments before the other men in the room had come running out, screaming about ghosts to one another as they all scrambled to find an exit of any kind. At first he had thought it was in reaction to himself, having been deemed a ghost himself many times by the other employees of the theater. But he had come to the conclusion that this had been the effect the girl had caused. Terribly, it made him feel more secure in his presence there. If he were not the worst thing there then she must really have been a spectacle. He knew that she could not have been. The boy had said she told him that she was simply invisible. So what was there to scream and run from? She was nothing but a voice now, it was after the curse was broken and she could be seen that there would be something to be concerned about. 

He envied her to a degree. She had money and the ability to go about the world without ever being noticed, two things he had always strived for. It was his face, his visibility, that had allowed those people to find him, after all. And she had a family that did not cast her aside, only devoted themselves to fixing her problems. 

At least, that’s how it seemed. The fop seemed to think otherwise. But if she truly  _ were _ invisible, then why not just use it to escape? He knew that she could not have been so stupid as to not think of such an idea herself. If she wanted to leave then he had no doubt that she could. 

Or, as the fop had suggested, she really had undergone serious abuse to make her think this life was the only option for her. That he could understand, but even he’d cobbled together the mind to escape at one point. He could only hope she had not undergone the kind of torture he had. Invisible she may have been but she was not like him. Trapped and excluded for what she looked like, perhaps, but that was as far as their similarities stretched. She harbored compassion and humanity within her.

Erik berated himself as he stood to discard his coat and waistcoat for having agreed to this, but, when she had begun to sing to the music she had asked for him to continue playing…

He had vowed that he would not prolong this idiotic mission those two had set him on. He had been planning on sinking a few days, at most a week, into this venture but her voice! It was so enchanting, even coming from those shoddy speakers they had set up for her in the ceiling corners of the room. It was nothing he had ever heard before and it was being wasted on being trapped inside that mansion! Not even given a proper lesson to allow it to flourish into what it was supposed to be. He did not know if he was angry for it having been untouched or grateful to be the first one allowed to guide it on its path. 

Already he could feel his fingers itching to get back to the keys, inspiration hitting him as if he had only just discovered music all over again. Only this time he was more of a man than a monster and was aware of the boundaries that would need to be put in place here. He was there to gather information and he would do so while attending to her lessons. Soon enough he would have the evidence those two needed to get her out of the house, married to the fop, and her curse would be broken. 

Maybe then he would have built up enough rapport to persuade her to sing for his theater. 

___

Christine waited to make herself known to the man when he arrived the next day, whose name she had learned from Sorelli the previous evening to be Angel Campion. 

_ Angel _ . Her Angel of Music had found her at last. 

He had approached the piano when he first entered the room, touching it like some sort of support. Instead of sitting down, though, he moved away to inspect the cabinets and shelves that lined the walls of the room. They were mostly filled with books and some other treasures her papa had brought back for her on business trips. Sea shells from the beach, a clock that had been handcrafted by a man in Switzerland, a snowglobe that she made sure to keep dust away from, and other oddities she had collected or made herself. 

His hand touched a velvet mask she had made as a child. 

“Why do you wear that mask?” she asked suddenly, making him stiffen. His arm retracted from the cabinet, shutting the glass door. 

“Why do you wear a mirror?” 

Touché. “You know why.”

“Not fully, no.” He sighed when she did not answer, his shoulder dropping in defeat. “I hide my face so that others do not have to look at it.” 

“Why?”

“Because it’s hideous,” he answered simply. “It has been that way since my birth and it has caused me, and those around me, nothing but grief.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity, Miss Daaé. I know that you, of all people, knows what it feels like to have people turn away simply because you look a certain way.” 

“Do you ever remove it?”

“Only when I am alone.” 

“Will you ever remove it for me?” 

“Only when you do so for me,” he replied, knowing he need not fear too much about this declaration. When she did not answer he nodded to himself. “Shall we get to the lesson, then?”

It was not at all what she had envisioned. He had not allowed her to sing at all that day, insisting that they focus only on her breathing because if she couldn’t breathe properly then everything else was a waste. Constantly he would ask her to report to him what she was doing since he could not check to see if she was following his instructions. He was curt and insistent, very hyper focused on the task ahead of them. Finally, when he was satisfied, he deemed their lesson to have ended. He then informed her that she would need to continue to practice until he returned.

“And when will that be?” she asked, trying to not sound too eager. 

“When would you like me to return?” he shot back from where he stood in the doorway. 

“Tomorrow?”

“Then you have your answer,” he said and then gave a shallow bow. “Good evening, Miss Daaé.” 

___

Erik returned every day at the woman’s request. He could not deny her lessons because he did not have the strength to stay away. Her presence, though on the other side of a wall, was pleasant. It did make him uncomfortable for a time, feeling as though he were back in that wretched room being looked at by prying eyes. But he had slowly gotten used to it. He knew by the way the air moved through the speakers when she was there and when she was not. He could feel her eyes upon him as he moved about the room, feel them burning into his back as he played the piano for her to demonstrate the pitch and note she needed. 

Often, she would start the day with a question for him. They had started off very small. How he came to find music, what sort of music he enjoyed the most, what he did when he was not there teaching her, was he a teacher to other students. He allowed himself to answer, keeping in mind that he was not Erik here to both her and the two buffoons that would listen to the recording when he returned it to the detective at the station; they had abandoned the van much to Erik’s amusement due to being unable to sit in it for hours everyday. 

It made him very aware of their conversations, knowing that he could never say too much and half embarrassed for her when she would say something personal. But it was for the right reasons, was it not? To save a woman from her own father? 

Though, from what Erik could tell, the man had no ill intentions of his daughter. Only that he was too overprotective from what Christine had told him. He had inspected the house thoroughly by now and there were no chains in the basement or attic. Her art covered the walls, her creations littered shelves. She was a part of every room, one way or another. The man even wore slippers that were knitted by her, despite their fraying ends. Erik no longer felt the need to roam the halls in the night without their knowledge because he knew that he would not find any evidence that way. 

“He lost my mother and he doesn’t want to lose me,” she had admitted one day. He had allowed their conversations to progress more as the days went on, knowing that he would need to show some evidence that he was at least trying to do something for the fop and the detective. They had only just accused him of wasting their time, stating that if he didn’t do something soon they would need the money back.

Money that had already been given away, his theatre being in his name being the product of that. And he would not be selling so soon just to keep the Vicomte from prying into who he really was. 

“So, if you wished to leave, you could?” he asked and could hear her little sigh. 

“No.”

“No?”

“There are people out there that would make that very difficult for me to do that. The whole reason my mother died was because they wouldn’t leave her alone. Imagine what might happen if I went out, too,” she said. “No. I’m safer in here. And when the curse is broken, then I will be able to go outside without fear.”

He could not help but to chuckle sadly at that sentiment. “Miss Daaé, there will always be people to fear, no matter what you look like. Had I the chance, I would have done the same as you.”

Another moment of silence passed between them before she gathered enough courage to say, “I have always wanted to hear an orchestra from the seats of a theater.” 

He lifted his head from where it had bowed itself in shame, “Oh?”

“Yeah. Papa plays for me, and you play for me. Both are lovely, but it only makes me want to hear more music live. Like a concert.” She sighed, wistful.

“There is a theater in the city, if you ever get the chance.”

“Have you been?”

“Many times,” he said and then continued to describe his home to her in great detail. Before he knew it he had given her its known history and facts that he could think of, had droned on and on about the drama that would occur throughout the cast, and about the business side of it that made him want to pull his hair out. She had listened through it all, giving a comment here and there, asking questions when she could. 

“It sounds wonderful. I wish I could go to the one of the operas, like the ones you’ve been teaching me.” 

Erik hummed, pleased. “One day, Miss Daaé, you will sing those operas on stage yourself.” 

“Don’t tease me.”

“I’ve told you, I would never tease you when it comes to matters of your voice.”

The rest of the day, he could hear the smile in her voice. 

The lessons had continued and while she left them with new progress, Erik would leave with details of her. 

“I love chocolate,” she would tell him. 

“Have you ever seen  _ Mamma Mia!  _ ? I’ve only just been able to see the new one.” 

“Christmas time is always my favorite time of year.” 

He had come to cherish each of these facts, every little thing she had chosen to disclose with him. No matter how trivial. It bothered him, knowing that had it been anyone else he would have forgotten or brushed them off. But not with her, with her he collected them like gifts. With everyone he would return home and write music. The compositions left him like they couldn’t think to stay inside his head a moment longer, rushing to the page where they belonged. It became easier and easier as the lessons progressed. 

It wasn’t until the day she had let a curse slip that he realized why. 

It had been in French. He had not even realized she knew the language, she had never mentioned it and her accent only sounded like a softer version of her father’s own Swedish one. Although, he had never mentioned he spoke it as well so when he told her to watch her language and heard her startled gasp he had begun to laugh. 

When he heard her returning laughter he knew, he had fallen in love with her. 

And what a poor thing to have happened, wasn’t it? Here he was, pretending to be someone he was not at every turn. 

A suitor for a girl who needed someone to break her curse. A blue blood for a curse that needed to be broken. A man on the inside looking for evidence of abuse for a man who was both of those things already. 

And yet all he was was only a monster teaching her to sing. 

Oh, how beautifully she had taken to their lessons. Her voice had strengthened with every note, her range had grown so vast that the high note she hit had sent him into stunned silence for several minutes as he had allowed it to ring out throughout the house. She had grown confident due to his teaching, how harsh he could be at times because he knew,  _ knew _ , that she could give him more than she was allowing herself to produce. Sometimes it took a bit of a push and to talk her down from her frustration, until her talent and hard work shone in the notes and melody. 

Her work inspired him in his own. It gave him the strength he needed to begin the renovations he had always wanted to do on the theater. Now that he had the rights to do so he got to work. Getting the seats newly upholstered and the lighting for backstage fixed, new flooring in the practice rooms and better hanging solutions for the costumes. Everyone had seemed to notice these new changes and while he stalked around the theater he would hear them compliment his work, though they did not know it was him who did it. But that did not matter, he sought no credit for repairing what needed it most. 

Erik made peace with the dance instructor. She had been there before he had arrived and been the one to discover him in the basement. She was the one who had given him his first job, a janitor. And now he was the first manager who listened to her and gave in to her, very reasonable, requests. With everyone in the crew and performance in harmony, they could begin to work together to rebuild. 

He had gathered a workable group for shows, a competent full orchestra for concerts, and brought in a sizable crowd every night to be able to do more than break even. He was making a profit, and it was all thanks to Christine having gifted him music, true music, the kind that had to be shared with other people, not just himself, once more. 

One night the fop had been at the police station with Nadir when Erik had come to drop off the recording from that day. He had been in a mood, yelling about how Erik was playing them and doing nothing to help Christine. At the accusation that Erik was only going for the offered inheritance should he marry Christine, he could no longer hold onto his silence. 

“Have you ever stopped to think, Vicomte, that perhaps it is her choice to stay in that house?” Erik asked, keeping his voice level. He would not allow his temper to get the best of him while he stood in a police station, in front of an officer. 

“She doesn’t know any better.”

“She is a capable and smart woman. She can make her own decisions.”

“Tell that to her father!” Raoul scoffed. “I want to marry her! I want to break the curse!” 

“Then why haven’t you?”

“Because he won’t let me!”

“It was Christine that asked you to leave, wasn’t it?” 

“Well– yes.” 

“And you say that her father is desperate to have her married?”

“Obviously.” 

“Then are you sure that it is him who does not want you to marry her?” 

___

“Miss Daaé,” he said, one day after a lesson. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Angel,” she replied, smiling as she sat down on her bench to rest. He always made her stand the whole time during their lessons, sometimes she would even have to walk or run around her room by his instruction. She still didn’t believe that she would ever perform in a production but he insisted that she practice like this anyways. 

“Why have you never left this house?”

She huffed, mood shifting slightly. Mostly, though, she was confused by this line of questions. “You know why.”

“You say you’re invisible,” he stood from his seat. “Are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then couldn’t you simply walk about the streets without any problems? Save you bumping into anyone, of course.” 

Her cheeks grew incredibly warm as a flush over took her face. “I...I couldn’t do that!” 

“Why not?”

“I…” she pressed her lips together. When she answered her voice was lowered into a hushed whisper, “I would have to be completely naked.”

He paused at this, then shrugged. But she could see the tips of his ears turning red. “No one would know, would they?”

“I would know!” 

“Can you see yourself, then?”

“No.”

“Then I fail to see the problem,” he continued. “You could walk out of this house without anyone noticing you. You could...see the park, the ocean. Or go to the theater. No one would even know you were there. And no one would be able to take your photo as proof.” 

She pressed her lips together, considering his words greatly. In the end she shook her head, “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Angel pressed, his voice lowered slightly. She suspected it was due to the recording her father was taking of them and their audience of three sitting in the kitchen. “Is there something else keeping you here besides the people out there?” 

“I– no.”

“Then why not venture out?”

“Because I can’t, Angel. I can’t. You’ve said you know what it feels like for people to run from you because of what you look like!”

“But you’ve been given the ability to not be seen at all and you are squandering it by keeping yourself here.” 

“I’m not keeping myself here!” 

“So then someone else is holding you hostage? Are you chained to the radiator? Nailed down to the floor?”

“No, of course not! I’m here of my own free will, but I’m only here because of what the world might think and I’m-I’m-” she grappled for the right word. “I’m scared! What if it’s not what I want it to be? What if it’s terrible? What then?”

“Then you find the good, Miss Daaé. Just as you’ve done for yourself inside your room.” She watched in awe as he smiled. “But I will leave that decision up to you.” 

___

Nadir had sighed when he finished playing the recording. He looked up at Campion and the Vicomte who sat in the chairs across from his desk.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Raoul whispered, staring at the speaker. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Campion cried, his hands going up only to fall down into his lap. “Are you purposefully so ignorant?” 

“You heard her, she said she’s scared!” 

“Of the  _ world, _ not her father.” 

“But-”

“Vicomte,” Nadir said, causing Raoul to look back to him. “I think Mr. Campion is right. We have been at this for almost half a year now. If we were going to get any sign, this would have been it.” 

Raoul stared at the detective, his expression going from shock to anger in a matter of moments. “So that’s it then?” 

Campion pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Here is your money back, Vicomte. I do not wish to be a part of this any longer.” 

Raoul stood up, his chair pushing back from the force. 

“Fine! Then I will get her out of there myself!” he yelled before tearing open the door and storming out of the office. 

They waited until the slamming had subsided until Nadir broke the silence. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Mr. Campion. I’m sorry it’s gone on this long.” 

The other man nodded and began to rise from his chair. Nadir rose too with the intention of walking him to the exit but paused. 

“What will you do now?” he asked. “Will you continue to teach her?”

“If she wishes it.” 

Nadir smiled knowingly. “I  _ see _ . Then you intend to marry her?”

“I– what?” Campion sputtered. 

“To break the curse, of course! It’s obvious from what I’ve listened to that you’ve fallen for the girl.” 

“Is it now,” the man mocked but Nadir only smiled. He had grown fond of his dry remarks and grumpy demeanor because he knew, by the recordings, that it was not all he was capable of. “The Vicomte would never let that happen.” 

“But you don’t think that she will marry him.” 

“I don’t know that he is what she wants.”

“And are you?”

“No,” he said with a fierceness and shook his head. 

“Then what is?”

“I’m not quite sure she knows yet.” 

___

There was so much about Angel that she did not understand. Despite what he had said to her when they had first met, she had played the game of quiet observer for seven years, going on eight now, and had gotten quite good at it. 

Everyday he attended lessons. He never canceled for one reason or another, but neither did she. The only time that had occurred was when Christine had caught a cold, her father had suspected she got it from Mason, and Angel had been adamant that she rest. Still, she had asked him to return the next day. Not for lessons, but to play for her. He had come, as she asked, like he always did. 

Everyday he would bring with him new music, things published or things he had written himself. Often he would ask her opinion on the pieces he would play for her and it had taken her several days to understand that he valued her thoughts, marking down the things she said with a pen he kept in his jacket. He would leave behind sheets of music for her and she had a collection of them in a folder that rested on her nightstand. Sometimes she would run her fingers over the ink, wondering how his handwriting could be so terrible. 

Everyday he wore the mask and never touched it or his face. She knew it must not have been the most comfortable thing in the world to wear. She had told him, several times, that he could take it off here but he had never responded to her with any real answers. They were always cryptic and vague,  _ Be happy with your ignorance, _ and before she could let her mind untwist them he was going on with the lesson, leaving the conversation behind. 

Everyday he dressed in suits, never anything casual. They were not always the same, the color and cut would change as the garments did. But as they continued she could see when he would rewear clothing. He had several pairs of trousers but only two pairs of shoes. The only thing that she could keep track of with watchful eyes was the length of his hair. It had not been long when they had first met, a modest length that flopped about when he would play. As the weeks went by it had grown out, getting well passed his ears. And then, one day, he had come back with it shorter than before indicating that he’d had it cut. It was still floppy at the top, but the sides were shorter and he no longer had to touch it as much. She would wait to see how long he would wait to cut it this time around. 

Everyday he would push her and tease her and sigh at her. Everyday she would listen to him tell her how much she had improved and how proud he was of her. Everyday he paid her compliments that were intertwined with critique. 

Everyday she felt herself growing more and more attached to this man, this man who did not match the types that had come before him. A blue blood he may have been but he never acted like on. She was left wondering what it was that they were to one another now that all this time had passed. It was that thought that had worried her the most. She knew her father had every hope and prayer resting on her vocal teacher in being the one to break the curse, but Christine did not want to scare him away by asking. 

And everyday he was always so formal with her, always calling her  _ Miss Daaé _ instead of her first name and she had never corrected him otherwise, enjoying that it was what he called her. Out of respect or modesty. It made her think that he had no intentions of romance toward her to keep her at such a distance. But, she was keeping him at a distance, too. Usually she would have exposed herself to him months ago. They had been at this for so long, she didn’t want to break it. Seeing him, hearing him, getting to know him with every move he made and every word he said, had brought her back from the brink of something she had not wanted to name after Raoul. 

The men that came before him always asked her to marry them. They always told her all the things that would happen after, when the curse was broken. Angel only asked her what she wanted, only gave her options for her to choose from. While he was controlling over their lessons he was never the guide in their regular conversations about hobbies or life or philosophy. He always left it up to her. 

“Are we friends, Angel?” she asked one day after he had finished playing, at her request. She watched him sit up and turn around on the piano bench. Behind his mask those brown eyes, that she now knew to almost be gold, blinked wide. 

“Are we, Miss Daaé?” 

“I would like to think so.”

“Then you have your answer.” 

She wished, silently, that they could be more. That Angel would come in one day to tell her how he felt and that he would marry her, should she only ask it of him. She did not know when she had fallen in love with him, only that she had. 

___

Without having to worry about the detective and the fop listening any longer, Erik was able to relax more in their lessons. He allowed himself to answer her questions when she asked them, careful to not go too far so that her administration would suspect that he was not who he said he was, but not so careful as to keep the truth of him from her. 

“Where did you learn to play music? Who taught you?” she had asked one of these days. 

“I taught myself,” he replied, not paying attention as he had taken to writing down notes for her to leave behind. 

“What? But you know so much. How could you have taught all of that to yourself?”

“Well, I suppose I did have some help, though it was nothing so...traditional.” 

“Tell me,” she insisted. 

And so he did. He told her, without giving away too much, that he had snuck into the art schools around their area to poach from the classes and from the shelves of the libraries that were there. He attended classes, but from the shadows so that no one would notice him and escort him out. He did everything in his power to find what music he could, nothing being able to satiate the insistent need within him to learn until he had ransacked every available outlet that was there. 

“That, and,” he shrugged, “the internet has always been very helpful.” 

“Why didn’t you go into music, then?” she asked after he was done. “Surely you had enough money.”

“My...upbringing wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“Because of your face?”

“Among other things.” 

“And you say you have no friends and no family.” 

“I...prefer to be alone,” he said, as if it were his choice. He heard her sigh.

“Me, too.” Then, “I suppose that’s why I enjoy my time with you, you understand me like no one else.” 

After that, he forced her back to her lesson. 

That night he had gone home and been unable to sleep. The melody in his head would not let him rest. That night, he stood, went to his piano, and began to play until morning.

___

“But how am I to sing duets if I have no partner?” Christine asked, giggling as she looked at the sheet music he had pressed against the mirror to face her. He had brought it with him that morning, a whole opera tucked under his arm. 

“Am I not adequate enough?” Angel sat down at the piano bench, putting the other set of music in front of him before he opened the lid to the keys.

“I...well– I didn’t think...you’ve only ever sang for demonstration.”

“I’ve never had a reason to before. But we are not there yet, Miss Daaé. In order to not be distracted by your partner, no matter who they are, you will need to know your part inside and out.” 

“I take it you already know these, then?” she asked, studying it through the glass.

“Of course,” he said. “I wrote them.” 

Days passed and while the opera was always a part of the lesson, it was not always the focal point. Not until a few weeks later when he told her that he would join her in one of the duets that day. 

“Do you think I’m ready?” she asked, nervous suddenly. She had not been nervous to sing for him since they had first begun so many months ago. Christine had almost forgotten that Angel had not originally come to be her teacher. 

“Yes, I dare say you are, Miss Daaé.” 

She began, as she always did. The song had been difficult for her at first but he had walked her through it with patience and gentle chiding. Allowing her to see that he had written it for her, because of her, there was no reason that she could not sing it. 

After her portion, she held her breath, and waited for him to begin. 

When he did, she had to drop to sit down on her bench as her knees went weak beneath her.

His  _ voice _ . It was deep, rich, and the depth of emotion he could hold in it was enough to rock her to her core. It sent shivers over her skin so that when she ran her palms over her arms she could feel the goose bumps that had risen. She was so enraptured with him that she had almost missed her second entrance. 

They harmonized together, her voice fitting perfectly over the top of his. But she could tell that there was something getting lost in the translation of microphone to speaker. They were doing everything they could but it wasn’t enough and she  _ wanted _ it to be. 

As if she was under some sort of spell, his voice maybe, she pushed open the door to her room that was hidden behind the bookshelf and stepped into the room. He didn’t turn to look, still too taken with the music and the piano in front of him. 

Together they sang, unencumbered by anything but the pitiful acoustics the room gave them. Their voices intertwined once more after his verse, Christine having gathered her music from the mantle into her hands. The crescendo of their voices did not overpower one another or the piano behind it, but fit perfectly together. As if they had always been meant to sing together, as if their voices had been created with one another’s in mind. Her sweet, melodic one gave his deep and powerful one something to soften the blow while his pushed hers to be better. 

They ended on the last note, singing it slowly until it faded with the piano. His fingers lifted from the keys and it was silent, save for their breathing. She was smiling, she could feel the pain of it in her cheeks by how hard the corners of her mouth were being pulled up. 

“That was astounding, Miss Daaé,” he said, but his voice was thin, as if it was taking him a great effort to say it. 

“Me? You have been holding out on me, Angel!” she cried, forgetting, for once in her life, what she was. “How could we have known one another all this time and I never knew this about you?”

He stiffened at this and, before she knew it, was turning around to look at her. She sucked in a sharp gasp as the reality of the situation returned to her and waited. 

She stood between him and his exit. But he could go around her, around the couch, and would be gone. Just like all of them. 

But he sat perfectly still in his place. His eyes hadn’t widened, only softened. His shoulders had not gone up in a defensive way, only slumped as he let out a breath. She could see him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing at his throat. 

“For some reason,” he said, and his voice was not a scream or a yell, it did not sound frightened in the least, “I had never imagined you to wear shoes.” 

“What?” she asked, incredulous and with too much breath. Christine looked down at the heels she was wearing.

“Shoes. I never wear them when I’m at home. I simply assumed you would have no need for them. Let alone heels.” She met his eyes, and he seemed to know exactly where hers were. His brown ones looked at her with something she couldn’t put a name to. No one had ever looked at her like that.

No one had ever just  _ looked _ at her. 

“How...how-”

Angel rose from the bench then and she had never realized how tall he truly was until he was looming over her, hands clasped around his back. 

“Hello, Miss Daaé,” he said. Angel reached forward, his fingers traced a line from her shoulder and down her arm until he could feel her hand where it was clutched around the sheet music. Gently, he pried the hand away to give her a proper handshake. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Can…” she had to swallow to wet her dried throat. “Can you see me?” 

“Perhaps not in the traditional sense,” he replied, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand making her shiver. She had never felt touch like this, had never thought she would. The books she had read described it, had listed out all the ways in which people could touch and all the feelings that would accompany them. This was different, this was real and deliberate. “But yes, Miss Daaé, I can see you.”

“Christine.”

“Pardon?”

“You can call me Christine.” 

“Christine,” he repeated, like it was some sort of gift she had bestowed upon him. She felt hot tears prick at her eyes. 

“Marry me, Angel,” she said, knowing at once that this was what was meant to happen. “Please.”

“Christine-” He dropped her hand and started to fall back, she followed him, grasping at his sleeve. 

“This isn’t me, Angel. You know this isn’t all I am. I could be so much more. All you have to do is marry me and that will be the end of it! We won’t have to worry about anything after that.”

“Christine, please-” 

“I would never ask you to accept this–” she gestured to herself, but didn’t know how well it came across with only her sleeve moving, “–as your wife, but, Angel, after we are married you’ll be able to see me. The real me. I’ll be right here, like any other woman.” 

“You are  _ not _ just any other woman.”

“But I could be, don’t you see? I could be normal. You could make that happen. All you have to do is marry me. I– ” she put the music down on the piano bench and stepped closer to him. He did not run or cower, only accepted her presence with a shuddering breath pulled in between his lips. She gathered his hands into her own, lacing their fingers together. “I love you, Angel.” 

She watched him as his eyes widened and gasped as he fell to his knees before her. His hands were still locked together with her own. Christine went with him, refusing to allow him to slip from her so easily. Not him, the others had all run, but not him. 

He was crying, she realized with a start, trying to hide from her in something that she knew to be shame. So was she, she had been crying since he had touched his skin to hers. But he could not see her tears as she could see his and she didn’t want him to think he had to hide from her. 

Not from her. 

She removed her hands from his, and he let her do so with only a hiss of his breath. He tried to move away then, he must have thought that was her intention, but she reached for him. With a hand on either side of his face, over the mask he wore, she pulled him to her. Christine pressed a kiss to it where it covered his forehead, and then leaned forwards to press hers against his. The mask was cool against her skin.

“Please, Angel,” she sighed. “You said that when I removed mine, you would remove yours.”

“It’s not the same,” he said, his hands coming up to circle around her wrists but he did not pull her hands away. “You are beautiful, so beautiful, and I– I’m nothing but a creature pretending to be something I’m not, Christine.” 

“That’s not true.”

“It is, Christine, not just my face, if you’d known the things I’ve done, what I was –”

“Then tell me.” 

___

And so he did. 

Erik guided her from the floor to have her to sit down on the couch and he took the chair to keep himself at length from her. Both exits were open for her to take when she needed them. 

With a deep breath, he began. 

He told her everything that he could remember. His mother selling him, the years spent in a single room being looked upon and tortured for the enjoyment of others.

The first man he had killed had felt like an accident. They had allowed him into the room to look at the animated corpse and had tried to strangle what little life was left there and instead of dying, Erik had fought for life for reasons he still did not understand. He had cried for hours after, having to sit in the room with the dead man, thinking his punishment for such a deed would be worse than the death he had saved himself from. 

When the man who had bought him had seen his capabilities, he had been taught to kill to stay alive. For years he had lived like this, doing terrible things to anyone the man pointed his finger at until he had been saved. One of his targets had been playing a record in his house. A song so beautiful it had awoken the human heart that still, somehow, beat inside of him. Music called to him and he knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore it. 

Instead of returning to his master, Erik planned his escape. 

After the man who had bought him had been arrested Erik had faked his death and left that life behind him. He had learned to function among people by watching them from the shadows, learned music from the schools and musicians that played in the street, and haunted the theater until he could step into the sun without shying away from the warmth of it on his skin. It had taken years, many years, to learn how to be a human. Still he did not think himself worthy of being called such a thing.

He told the story as if he were recounting a history chapter to her, his words plain and simple, no emotion within them unless it was in reference to the man who had done this to him. Only then would his words falter, his breathing break. It frustrated him to no end that he still held power over Erik, but it could not be helped. 

Christine, on the other hand, was a mess. Her emotions were unable to hide in silence as she wept for him. She had never heard of such horrific things. Had never imagined that anyone could do something to anyone else, let alone a child. Before she knew it she had already forgiven him for everything, knowing that it had not been his fault that he had been forced to do those things. Anyone would have after spending years in those circumstances to not be tortured and starved. She was amazed that he was able to speak with her now, like this, about it. About anything. That he could play instruments so well, compose songs, and teach silly things like her how to sing to perfection. 

“Please, don’t cry, Christine,” he begged. “Not for me.”

“You were only a kid, Angel.”

“I was, I suppose, at one time. But not for too long.” 

“All that time,” she clenched her jaw. He blinked at the sound of her anger, having never heard it before. “All that time they stole from you! I can’t believe your own mother would just – and that they could–!”

“It’s alright,” he kept his voice soft so as not to evoke more of this from her. “People are scared of monsters, Christine, they must deal with them as they see fit. This was my punishment.” 

This had only made her cry more. “You’re not a monster!”

He was at a loss as to why she could think this after what he had just told her. “Aren’t I? Murder, as I’ve learned, is punishable by death in many countries, Christine. I evaded any judgement or justice for the people I killed.” 

“But you haven’t...you haven’t hurt anyone after, have you?” He shook his head. “You’ve changed. You’ve gotten better, you made yourself better!” 

“Christine, you know the truth now. I’m nothing. I am not a teacher or-”

She couldn’t bear it anymore, she reached out to take his hand in hers. He flinched at the contact but she knew that it was not because it was her hand that touched him, but that a hand touched him at all in a way that was not meant to cause him harm. “You’re not what they turned you into, despite everything they did. You saved yourself, Angel, you’re not a monster.” 

“How...how can you say that?” he asked, curious more than anything. 

“Because you’ve always been kind to me, if a bit bossy, but I trust you. I know you would never hurt me.” Christine breathed in deeply to center herself. “You’ve only ever given to me. You gave me my voice. And I love you, Angel.” 

“Oh, Christine,” he pleaded, his voice was wrecked and watery. He was in pain, but from what she could not tell. “I love you.” 

For a moment, she had never known such happiness. 

“But I can’t.” 

___

Erik returned to his theater and wondered, in the end, had it been worth it? There was no one there at this hour, the custodial team having gone home long ago. He roamed its corridors until he found the stage.

The stage on which he had once thought Christine Daaé would make her debut singing the Opera he had finished for her. He had left behind in that room.

But that would never come to pass after what he had done. He had lied, cheated, and bargained his way into her life and it was only right that he paid the punishment of exile from it now. The only time he had given her the truth he had thought it would be the thing that pushed her away but she had proved him wrong, as always.  _ Angel _ , she called him, not knowing that she herself deserved the name instead.

He hoped, for the first time, that the fop would be true to his word and release her from her prison. 

The prison that was not her house, no, but her own mind.

___

As it would turn out, Raoul de Changy would not have to save Christine Daaé for she had done that herself.

That night, after she had cried and cried into her bed, she sat up to look about her room. His words still clung to her, even now as she willed her heart to hate him instead of love him as it did. 

He was right. She hated to admit it, but he had been right. She could leave, so easily, she could get out of this house and go see the things she had been missing. The world. 

_ But I will leave that decision up to you _ , he had said. Well fine, she thought, she had made her choice, just as he had his. If he could go out there then she could, too, dammit. 

So she packed. She gathered what she could into a suitcase she had only ever pretended to pack up as a child and looked at herself in the mirror. Christine took off her clothing, one item at a time, until she ceased to exist in front of the mirror. It felt wrong, like she needed to be in the bathroom to be doing such things, but, after a moment, it also felt freeing. No one could see her like this. No one would know she was there. Truly, she would be a ghost. 

But, she also knew that she would never be able to do this in public. Especially not in the winter!

Instead, she gathered up a disguise. She wore pants that hugged her legs down to her ankles and placed her sock covered feet into tall rain boots. On top of that she wore a long sleeve shirt, gloves, and a long trench coat. A ski mask her father had once worn in his youth that covered all of her face was placed over her head, a scarf around her neck and up to hide her mouth. Sunglasses for her eyes and finally a hat. It wasn’t needed, of course, but she felt like the baseball cap would give her more coverage. 

No part of her was showing and yet she stood before the mirror seeing herself for what felt like the first time. 

She carried her suitcase, got her father’s credit card from his wallet that he left in the same place every day by his keys and watch in the kitchen, and stepped outside for the first time since she had been a child. She took her first step and then the next and then didn’t stop until she was standing on the sidewalk of the city. 

People filled in around her, walking up and down the streets, not paying her any mind. It was winter, everyone was wearing layers upon layers, she only stuck out really because of her dark glasses, but no one cared enough to ask. 

The noises of their feet, their voices, the cars passing by and honking on the streets, were overwhelming. The neon lights from store signs and street lamps lit the air so that she could see even in the night and with shades hiding her eyes. The sharp wind cut through her clothing but she didn’t care, the feeling forign and new and made it all the better. 

Children’s laughter and music guided her to a park. Balloons were gripped by sweaty palms. Lights were strung up in trees. The smell of popcorn and other foods she couldn’t place but that made her mouth water all the same were in the air, the wind bringing them to her. 

All around were people. They spoke and laughed, yelled and cried. To one another, to each other. They walked, some ran, some rode on bikes or skateboards calling out in warning to those in their path. 

It was beautiful and she was there to see it. All of it. 

Eventually the night began to settle, people leaving to find their beds. Christine was tired, all the emotion inside of her overwhelming to say the least, and stood from where she had forced herself to sit on a bench. 

But first, she found a phone to call her papa. 

“Christine?” he answered.

“Hello, papa-” she started to say only to be cut off.

“Christine! What were you thinking? Where are you? I’m coming to get you, just tell me where you are!” 

“I...no, papa.”

“No?”

“No. I just wanted to call and say I’m safe and that I love you. But I’m not coming back. Not yet.”

“Christine, please, just tell me where you are-”

She hung up before his pleading voice could convince her otherwise. 

___

The last person he had expected to get a call from was Gustave Daaé. The poor man was in hysterics by the time his call had been forwarded to Nadir, saying that she had left and that he could not lose her and something else that Nadir could not make out but made a sympathetic comment to anyway. 

He had taken down the man’s information and asked more questions as to where it is that Christine might have gone. After that he assured Mr. Daaé that he would find his daughter and bring her back to him. 

When he hung up he sat there for a moment longer before he called the Vicomte.

___

It did not take her long to find the theater. 

And, oh, it was everything Angel had said it would be. The doors, the chandeliers, the pillars, and windows. It stood like a piece of artwork among the other buildings that surrounded it. She went inside and found it to be even more glorious. 

It did not seem as though she was supposed to be there, unlike the streets and other public places she had visited that day, there was no one inside. When she heard voices, she followed them to the stage. 

There was a ballet practice going on. The dancers all looked so elegant, their movements perfect and graceful as they fell in time with the recorded music that was being played and a woman’s stern voice that was calling out the time, just as Angel had done for her sometimes. 

Christine fled when the woman had called it for the day, not wanting to be caught spying. She instead took the rest of her tour and vowed to come back and see whatever show it was the dancers had been preparing for. 

She did want to leave the building, finding its walls comforting, but knew she needed to when she heard men’s voices coming her way. The exit was right before her and she was not so skilled to hide in plain sight. She knew her options were stripping or leaving and she still did not have the mind to walk about in the nude. 

She took refuge in a cafe across the street where a few of the dancers she had seen on stage had come for lunch. 

Christine ordered a milkshake, with a straw, and settled in at the bar to watch the waiter work. 

“Hey, Peter,” a voice beside her cut through Christine’s thoughts. She turned to find a short but strong, blonde woman standing a few seats down from her. 

“Ah, Meg, how’re you doing?” 

The woman gave a sigh, leaning her elbow heavily against the bar top. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Would I have asked otherwise?” 

“My mother is driving us into the ground!” the woman, Meg, exclaimed, her other hand gripping the air as if it were the hilt of a sword she had brandished before her. “Everything we do is wrong. Everything we say is wrong! Nothing we do is ever good, not even when we get it right! There has to be something to critique or to fix. This tough love crap is going to send people packing. Would it kill her to give us a compliment every once and awhile? Would it?” She turned to look at Christine, “Would it?”

Christine shook her head, “No.”

“Thank you!” Meg grinned at her for a moment before turning back to Peter. “And ever since like three days ago our manager has totally ghosted us! He was so happy for the last half a year all of us thought he went and got married or something. And now that the honeymoon phase is over or she left him, or whatever crawled up his ass and died, he’s back to being a total stick in the mud! It’s awful, Peter, just plain awful. I don’t know what we’re going to do if we don’t find a lead for our upcoming production. Open auditions are always such a toss up, and with Erik being as fucking picky as he is it’ll have to take a miracle for us to live to see next year.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Meg.” Peter frowned. “What’ll you do if it goes under?” 

“I dunno. Mom and I will probably go back to the ballet studio or something. Start our own maybe, out of the city. I don’t want to go but if it happens, it happens. Right?” Peter nodded his agreement and then Meg looked to Christine again, “Right?”

“Right,” Christine said. 

“What?” Meg asked, leaning a little closer. She motioned to her face, “I can’t hear you with the whole...get up. Wow, you cold or something?”

“Yeah.”

“With a hangover?” 

“I’m just– sensitive to light.”

“Oh, yeah, I get that. I burn in the sun really easily. Sucks.” 

“Yeah.” 

Peter placed the milkshake in front of Christine and left behind the counter to attend to new customers that had just walked in. Meg walked over and plopped down in the seat beside Christine. 

“Milkshake in the winter, huh? My mom’s sort of the same way. She always has tea. Always, even when it’s like 100 degrees outside.” 

“Comfort drink,” Christine nodded, unwrapping the straw that had been left behind for her and placing it into the milkshake. Carefully she lifted her scarf up and pulled the straw between her lips. The cold, smooth, sweet chocolate hit her tongue and she sighed in delight. 

“Exactly! Comfort drink. Of course mine’s a bit more alcoholic than tea or a shake, but hey, to each their own.” 

Christine hummed, then said, “I’m sorry to hear about what’s happening to your theater. It’d be a shame for it to go under.”

“Ah, it’s not your fault our manager just got up and disappeared suddenly. He’s moody. Bit of a recluse. It just fucking sucks because he was doing wonders with the place! He set up all these new things, like letting the local schools come in and play and learn from our orchestra? We’ve been able to hold dance lessons, too. It’s not great money but that’s not really the point of those things. Community building, you know? The place has never looked so good. We’ve never  _ sounded _ as good as we have now! And I know if we were to just get our shit together we could be great!” Meg deflated, “It just-”

“Sucks?”

“Yeah.” She shook her head, blonde hair whipping around. Her eyes turned to Christine once more, “I’m Meg, by the way.”

“Christine. It’s lovely to meet you. And I’m sure you’re a brilliant dancer.”

Meg snorted, “Why, you dance?”

“No, not if I can help it,” Christine laughed. “I just sing.” 

“You can sing, huh?”

“Yes, and play violin quite poorly.” 

“Ooo, a woman of many talents. I like it!” Meg grinned, then waved her hand. “Well, go on then.”

“What?” 

“Sing!” 

“Wha-?” Christine looked around them at all the people that filled the restaurant. “Here?” 

“Sure, why not?”

“There are people here. I...don’t want to disrupt their lunch.”

“Oh, please, we’re in the city. They’re used to it. Come on! Sing something!” 

It took her a moment, and she had to straighten up her back while sitting on the bar stool, but eventually Christine did. 

And, hours later, she still was. She was sat on the counter top of the cafe, surrounded by the public, a crowd of people having come at the sound of her voice and their friends coming to tell them of the masked singer that was taking requests. 

After every song they clapped and yelled for her and would demand another and Christine, elated, would sing for them until Meg dragged her by the arm off the counter and out the back door. 

“Where did you learn to sing like that!” 

“I...had a tutor…”

“Wow, they must have been some tutor. You sounded like an angel, girl! You  _ have _ to come out to our auditions!”

“I-I don’t know-”

“You don’t know? What are you talking about! You were amazing! Everyone in there loved you!” 

“I’ve never...never auditioned for anything, I-”

“Why get a tutor if you aren’t going to sing for people then, hmm?” At Christine’s silence Meg smiled, smug. “See? Then it’s settled, your voice is going to save our theater. Not even Erik would be able to turn you away!” 

Christine giggled at that, not knowing who this Erik the Terrorizer of all who worked in the theater was, but from what Meg had described of him, knew that it was quite a compliment. 

“Where are you staying tonight?” Meg had implored her as she pulled Christine across the street to the theater. 

“I’ve been staying in a hotel.” 

“I’ll take you then! My motorcycle can hold two.” 

When Meg had dropped Christine off at the hotel adrenaline was still pumping through her veins and the wind still roared in her ears despite having slowed down to normal walking speed, as she entered the hotel doors. 

She didn’t even notice that her father was talking to the front desk with two men at his side until she was half way up the stairs. 

One of the men she did not know, but the other was Raoul de Changy. His eyes locked on her and he called out, “Christine!” 

She took off running. 

She managed to get to her room, grab her suitcase, and be out onto the fire escape by the time they had rushed after her. 

Thankfully, she was able to escape. 

Sadly, she knew, she could no longer use her father’s credit card should she want to live her new life. So, she would need to make money. 

As she walked the trail of the park she spotted a man, playing the violin. A woman walking by dropped a few coins into his open case. 

___

She returned to the cafe quite often to have lunch with Meg who would introduce her to the other dancers. Often they would invite her to their rehearsals to watch, and Meg would show her around the theater that she insisted would soon be Chrisitne’s home, too. 

And, when learning that Christine had not been around the city much, Meg made it her mission every night to show Christine something new. The aquarium, the zoo, she took Christine ice skating and roller skating, because one was to the tune of Christmas carols while the other was for cheesy radio music and disco. They went to museums and pop up galleries. At the end of everyone she would send her papa a postcard as both evidence of her survival and her adventures. 

Christine helped Meg pick out a new plant and pillows for her room. She felt happy. Content in this new life she had found for herself. She met Meg’s mother one night and was greatly intimidated by her stare only to feel as though she had been somewhat adopted by the end of it when Madame Giry insisted upon Christine staying with them until she could hold her own feet. Meg had squeed, launching into the list of movies that she was going to make Christine watch. 

Neither of them ever asked about Christine's attire. 

“You’re fine, child,” Madame Giry had insisted. “I have seen far weirder. We’re in the theatre business, you know. Our manager is quite eccentric, so you will fit right in.” 

And while the Giry’s danced and rehearsed, Christine took to the streets to sing. People would stop to listen to her, clapping and waiting for her to continue to a new song when she had finished. The money was not great but it was enough to buy her own things to not feel like such a burden on her new found friends. 

She had even begun to rehearse her piece for the theater’s auditions, her excitement for getting to sing on the stage burning through her. Maybe Angel had not loved her enough to get over her visage, but she would always carry around the love of music he had sparked in her like no one else had. She would be forever grateful to him in that respect. 

Christine had been on her way back to the Giry’s apartment when she heard her father’s voice calling out her name. They spotted one another, and Christine turned tail. 

She ran, the heat of the afternoon sun made her attire that much more uncomfortable, but she did not let up until she was rushing through the doors of the cafe. 

“Oh, Christine!” Meg called, chipper. “I was wondering when you were going to get here. What’s-?”

Christine couldn’t breathe and yet was bringing in short choppy intakes of air, her lungs heavy inside of her chest. Her heart was beating too fast against them. Her vision swam with white dots. She fell back, hitting the back of her head hard against the tile below. Her hat fell off, flopping behind her head. 

“Oh my gosh, Christine!” Meg cried, kneeling beside her friend. She knew that the woman was very adamant about hiding every inch of her skin, always pulling at her sleeves and checking that her collar was popped and masked in place, but right now Meg did not care about propriety! She was no doubt sweltering in her get up. She pulled back Christine’s scarf and took off her sunglasses so that she could pull that ugly mask from her face. 

Gustave Daaé ran into the cafe just as Meg sat back, a crowd forming around Christine’s body. 

___

When Christine awoke, the first thing she saw was her father sitting in a chair next to her bed, slumped over in his sleep.

Outside the door there was a great ruckus of shouting. She stood from the bed, feeling the cool hospital air against her exposed skin. The tile was freezing against her bare feet. She only wore a hospital gown now when she opened the door to her room. 

In the hall, were piles of cameras and people holding those cameras. People in lab coats and notebooks stood with them, their eyes widening in wonder as she stood there. The talking turned to yelling as the crowd tried to trample over one another to ask her their questions. Mason and Tyler, who were standing guard, kept them from getting any closer. 

They weren’t running, they were pushing forwards. 

She left the hospital in the clothing her father had brought for her. Her face, legs, and hands exposed to the sunshine and eyes that followed them out the door. 

Meg was waiting for her, glaring at all the reporters that tried to get her to answer their incessant questions. But she smiled when she saw Christine. 

“I’m so happy you’re alright!” she sighed, pulling her into a tight hug. Then she pulled away, face stony, “Never do that to me again! I was worried sick!”

“I’m sorry,” Christine said.

“It’s alright. Is this your father?” she asked, looking to where Gustave was standing behind her.

“Yes! Oh, papa, this is Meg Giry, Meg, this is my papa. She’s a dancer at the theater I was telling you about!” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir! Your daughter is simply the best person I have ever met. And her voice! Well, I don’t have to tell you, eh? You’ve probably heard her sing oodles of times.” Meg laughed, brushing the hair from her face as the wind blew passed. “Did she tell you she’s going to be auditioning to be our lead soprano in a few months?”

“She has, yes,” Gustave smiled. “But-”

“And you’ve no need to worry about her! I promise if anyone messes with her, me and my mom will take care of them. So will our manager. He’s a real terror but like, in a nice way, you know?” 

Gustave did not, and neither did Christine, so neither answered her passed polite laughter as she giggled to herself. 

“You’ll have to come over for dinner some time! My mother would  _ love _ to meet you! She’s a big fan of your playing, but don’t tell her I said that. She’d be very cross with me.” Meg turned to Christine then, eyebrows raised. “Ready to go?”

“Papa, may I have some money? I’m running low, and I won’t be able to play on the streets anymore without causing a scene. As you can see,” Christine said and Gustave nodded, glancing around them at the cameras. 

“Will you not be coming home?” he asked, and looked so sad that Christine had to swallow down the tightness in her throat. 

“I will tonight, papa.” 

Gustave gave a sigh of relief and pulled his wallet from his inside pocket to give her all of the cash he had inside. They hugged and he whispered to her, “I love you, you know that, don’t you?”

“I know, papa. I love you, too.”

“But Christine…” he pulled back frown deeply. “A motorcycle, are you trying to kill me?” 

They held one another for a moment longer, cameras filming the moment and on as Christine pulled away and took off with Meg with a loud  _ Whoop!  _ being let out into the air. 

___

What Christine had never accounted for when she thought about venturing outside of her home, was becoming famous and all that came with such a feat.

She could not go outside without someone wanting a picture with her. Everywhere she went someone would call out to her, and begin talking with her as if she had known them all their lives. She was asked to sing countless times, and asked for interview after interview after interview. No one would let her rest. No one would let her simply sit with Meg and her friends to drink a chocolate milkshake. 

She was glad to have moved back home, the gates kept some of them at bay, and it would give the Giry’s the peace they deserved instead of this restless anxiety that sat within Christine now. She knew, in the back of her mind, that if she didn’t wear clothes then she could simply disappear. No one would know she was there. 

She wondered, countless times, if people were looking at her or if they were merely seeing through her. 

It was beginning to drain her, all the attention. After having lived a life with only five other people in it she did not know how to deal with everyday being filled to the brim with strangers begging her for things she didn’t think she owed them. All she wanted was a still moment, something quiet and peaceful, like they used to be when she could sit in her room for countless hours reading or watching films. 

Often her mind would drift to Angel, wondering where he was in the midst of all of this. At first she worried about his reaction to what some of the newspapers had written about her but she also knew that he was intelligent, that he wouldn’t fall for the words that someone wrote about her like the general public seemed to. She wondered where he was, too. If he was still here or if he had gone away to play his music somewhere else. 

_ I prefer to be alone _ , he had told her, among all the other things he had said. 

She hoped that he wasn’t. Now that she had Meg and Cécile and Peter as her friends, who she loved with a ferocity she had never known to possess, she did not want to think of anyone without that kind of friendship. Especially one such as him who had endured so much. He must have been playing music somewhere or composing it for others. But he had said he had never published his works, had never had the intention to draw attention to himself. 

But she had drawn the attention of the whole city upon her with her music. Surely, if he could see how people had accepted her he would not feel so shameful about himself or– to marry her? 

She tossed these thoughts aside, knowing that she could never marry him anyways. He had rejected her and no matter how much she wanted him he did not want her. And that was the end of that. 

Christine did not think that this curse would ever be broken, because while her name had been in the limelight for a week now, no suitors had come to take her hand. Though she may have been something to the general public, those with the power to break the spell had no intention of accepting her. 

That was until she came home one night to find Raoul de Changy sitting at the dining room table. He rose from his seat when she entered and she gasped, looking to her father for answers.

“What is he doing here?” 

“Christine-”

“He wanted to throw you in jail!” she accused, turning to glare at Raoul, though she knew he could not see it. “You are not welcome here!”

“Christine, it’s alright! I invited him here.” 

“You what?” 

“I’m sorry, Christine,” Raoul said, walking from around the table to step closer to where she was standing. “I only wanted what was best for you.”

“And threatening to bring the police here was what you thought was best for me? You didn’t even listen to me, Raoul, I  _ told _ you that I was fine! And look! I left, all on my own. And I’ve returned, all on my own,” she told him, tone scolding.

“I know. I know I was wrong before. I’ve apologized to your father countless times. Please, allow me to make it up to you, Christine. I never meant to hurt you,” Raoul said and his voice sounded so earnest. Always so sincere, she couldn’t do anything but believe him. 

“Raoul…”

“Marry me. Let me break this curse. Let me give you the life you’ve always dreamed of.” 

“But I...things are different now-”

“Christine,” her father took her by the arm, hand on her visible sleeve, and pulled her aside, “how are things any different than they were before? Because you can leave the house?”

“No, because I...I have friends, a career-”

“Those people are not your friends, they’re merely your fans. They see a spectacle. The invisible girl who sings whatever they throw at her. You’re nothing but a jukebox to them, Christine. They don’t see you,” he sighed, tears in his eyes. “This may be your only chance to be seen as you truly are, Christine.” 

She turned to look as Raoul approached them, a velvet box extended toward her. “Please. I love you. I want to do only what’s best for you. We can put all of this behind us and start new.” 

___

Nadir Khan sighed into his coffee as he read the front headlines that morning. It would seem, after all of this time, that the Daaé girl had finally agreed to marry de Changy. 

And to think, had she done that in the beginning none of this would have had to happen. 

He tossed the paper aside, not wanting to read any more of it. 

A knock at his door made him look up.

“Detective, may I get your help with something?” Officer Anderson, a woman of broad stature and tawny skin, asked him, a file in her hands. He waved her in.

“Of course, of course, what can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s this armed robbery case we were sent on. One of the guys confessed already and ratted out his partner, but he’s got a solid alibi. I don’t know how he did it.”

Nadir motioned for her to give him the file, and when he opened it the name  _ Angel Campion _ gave him pause. 

“Angel Campion?” He looked up to meet Anderson’s eyes. She nodded, one shoulder moving up and down.

“Yeah, he fessed right up. He’s been processed and everything. But he’s not the one I’m worried about-”

She continued to talk but Nadir had stopped listening.

He rose from his desk after giving her a few pointers, mainly to check with the store that they had gotten their video footage of the partner from to make sure they weren’t on the payroll, and left the station.

Getting into see Campion was not difficult, he had waved his badge and said something about a follow up, and they had sat him down in the visiting room without a problem. 

The man who walked in was not the man he had been expecting. This man was short, ginger hair, and freckles littering his skin. And he certainly did not wear a mask.

“Are you the lawyer?” he asked when the guard went to stand by the door. 

“I’m...I'm sorry, I’m here to see Angel Campion.”

“Yeah.”

“Campion?”

“That’s me, mate,” the boy said and Nadir recognized him in an instant. The man from the theater who he had run into, two women on his arms. 

He sighed heavily. 

Finding a man in a mask had not seemed like a hard task on paper, but put into practice it had been nearly impossible to track such a man down. But Nadir Khan had not made Head Detective in a few years time for nothing. 

Eventually he had found evidence of a man in a mask matching the description in the databases of other countries, citing him as  _ The Phantom _ because he had no legal name. An assassin that no one had ever been able to find until his body had washed ashore. The body had led the police to the man who had been keeping the Phantom on his leash, the employer who had admitted to kidnapping and training the boy to be the perfect killer as part of a plea deal and, in Nadir’s eyes, as a boast. It was no surprise to find this man had died in prison, no doubt as a result of having many enemies and without his pet to protect him any longer.

He wondered if the man he had met, who had agreed to the scheme, who had taught a girl to sing, fallen in love, and returned the money he had been issued as a result, was the same man he had just read about. A ruthless killer, presumed to be dead. 

It was even harder to find accounts of where this man was now. Surely he had not strayed too far. And if he had, then there was no point in the search at all. 

Nadir tried to think of where a man such as that would reside. And then he remembered.

Music.

___

Erik was sitting on stage, playing piano, when the detective finally walked through his door. 

“Erik,” the detective said. “Erik Garnier.” 

He stopped playing and closed the lid to the piano with a soft sound that echoed throughout the room. Rising from the bench he approached the edge of the stage where the detective stood at the end of the aisle. Only the pit area stood between them. 

“I was wondering when either you or the Vicomte would find me.” Erik sighed, “It makes me fret over the state of our police department, really.” 

“You are a very persuasive man.”

“I was not the one who was pleading for my help, now was I?” 

The detective looked around them at the room, eyes creasing in wonder. “So this is what you did with all that money.” 

“I’ve paid back what was given to me.”

“So then you’re doing well.”

“Not anymore,” Erik admitted, looking away from the detective. “It would seem you and the Vicomte were doing right by her after all, then.”

The detective made a displeased sound, “I take it you’ve seen the news?” 

“Of course. It’s been hard to miss. Everyone in the staff is talking about it. Miss Daaé will become the Vicomtess and he will have the bride he has been fighting for all this time,” Erik said. And, truly, he had been happy to hear the news if only to know that Christine would be getting rid of that curse once and for all.

“Do you really believe that she’s changed her mind about him?”

“I cannot believe otherwise. If I did...I’m afraid of what I might do.” 

“So it’s true then,” the detective narrowed his eyes at him. “You don’t look very dead to me.”

“I’m half there already, Detective,” Erik indicated to his mask. “But I can assure you, that life is far behind me.”

“I hope so, that way my conscious won’t keep me awake at night knowing that I haven’t brought you in.” 

“Thank you,” Erik said softly before picking himself up from such a fragile state. “If you are not here to arrest me, then why are you here?” 

“I came to ask why you didn’t marry her,” the detective asked. “I have been wondering for months now.”

“Oh, how I weep for the people of this city. If I am ever murdered I hope the case never crosses your desk for it will never be solved,” Erik sighed, his head lowering as he shook it in disappointment. “Detective, I am not one of their own kind, I am only a monster pretending to be a man, now. I could not break the curse. So...I cannot marry her.”

“You would see her marry him?” 

“It is what she wants. And he has the power and the means to give her the life she has always wanted. I have nothing to give her.” 

“But you  _ love _ her.”

Erik made a sound of agitation, moving away from the detective and his imploring eyes. Inside his chest his heart made its pain known, that terrible ache that had been with him for months now. But he had not wanted it to leave, the only thing he had left of her. Like a bruise, he would press on it, just to remember, to know that it had not healed. It never would. “So does he. And I won’t allow my selfishness to keep her from being– happy.”

The detective sighed and mirrored his movements on the floor below. Erik glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and finally relented. The man, despite Erik’s constant berating, was not so dumb that he was terrible company. In truth, though he would never admit it to anyone but his own mind, he had enjoyed their conversations in the detective’s office when he would drop off the recording equipment. 

“Well, you came all the way down here,” he griped. “Do you want some tea?”

“Oh, thank you, my friend,” the detective smiled. “But do you have anything stronger?”

___

Christine was wearing her wedding dress. 

It had been made long ago and prepped by the time she was 18 to be put on hold just in case she would need it in a pinch. The thought that they could persuade a man to marry her on the spot seemed laughable now, what with everything that had happened. It had only needed a few alterations for today. 

Families were all sitting outside the mansion under the large tents that had been set up. Champagne had been poured, food was being passed around on shiny treys by hired men and women in uniform. 

Among them were Meg, her mother,Cécile, Peter, and a few of the dancers that Christine had extended an invitation toward. 

She wore her wedding dress but required no makeup or anything to be done to her hair. No one would be able to see it, after all. So she stood alone in her room, her veil sitting on the table beside her. 

She was ignorant to the conversation that was going on in the dining room between Detective Nadir Khan, Sorelli, and her father.

“I am not here for any more false claims,” Nadir said, holding up a hand to stop their intimidating advancements. “I’m sorry for all the trouble-”

“Why are you here, sir?” Gustave asked, impatient. “It is my only daughter’s wedding day and you are going to make me late in walking her down the aisle.” 

Nadir sighed before slapping down the file in his hand onto the table and launching into an explanation of what had occurred over the past year. He left out no detail, save for Erik’s past life as it did not seem relevant now that he had been ensured that nothing of those times would become a problem anymore. 

When he was done Gustave left without a word and Sorelli only thanked him, swiping the file from the table before following out after him. Nadir stood there a moment longer before joining the rest of the guests for the ceremony. 

“We have to tell her,” Sorelli insisted as she followed after Gustave.

“No, we don’t. He denied her, he is out of the picture, that is the end of his story.” 

“Raoul sent in a  _ spy _ to get evidence on you and have you arrested! She deserves to know.”

“He’s apologized.”

“Did Raoul tell you about this?”

“No.”

“Then it means nothing. And Erik-”

“Lied about everything! Even his own name!” 

“He didn’t have the power to break the curse, Gustave! Don’t you think that’s why he said no?”

“Then he is a better man than I originally thought, but that doesn’t change anything.”

“Are you really so cruel? They loved one another! They-”

“He let her go so that she could marry someone who could break the curse! I say we respect his wishes.” 

“But Gustave-!”

“Enough, Sorelli! We have a wedding to attend.” 

___

Christine had never felt more like vomiting than she did while her father walked her down the aisle toward Raoul de Changy. 

But, oh, he looked so happy. Why could she not feel the same happiness? These past few days, in the midst of planning the wedding, he had come to her to tell her about how wonderful their life was going to be. About all the things they were going to do once he had broken the curse. 

Perhaps it was because he never asked her what she wanted to do. Or because when he spoke of their future, it was solely in regards to his life. He never spoke about her singing, or asked her where she wanted to live. Everything had already been planned for her. 

She felt, once again, like she was back to being the girl who lived in her father’s house having her whole life planned for her. That had worked for a time because she had been scared of the world, of not finding friends and love and something that she cared for so deeply. 

But she  _ had _ . Despite having no face to call her own, she had found something that tore her apart inside while also allowing her to be the happiest she ever felt. Performing for crowds of people had done that for her, the thought of auditioning to be in a musical production had been exciting and had felt so right. She did not want to give that up for anything, or anyone, not when it felt like she had only just found it. An identity that was all her own! Not because of her father’s name or her curse, but because of who she was, of what she could do. 

She had met Meg and her mother, two friends she knew she could not be parted with, as well as all of those who had come here in support of her, like Peter and Cécile. Christine looked to them now as the priest continued with the vows, finding Meg’s eyes in the crowd. Her friend gave her a hopeful smile, but Christine could tell that something was wrong. 

She looked to Sorelli, who was biting her nail. Something she only did when she was worried and upset. 

She looked to Mama Valérius who looked back at her with the same wide eyed expression. 

Finally, Christine found the eyes of her father.

“Christine?” the priest caught her attention. It seemed to be her turn to answer the impending question. Raoul smiled, nodding in encouragement for her to agree to the vows. His eyes were not looking at her though, they were focused on something behind her. Something visible. 

In that moment she knew that this would not work. Perhaps Raoul loved her as he said he did, but he did not accept her. 

“No,” she said and fled to the safety of her room. 

Her father followed her, pounding on the door that she had locked behind her. “Christine! Christine, please!”

“Go away, papa!” 

“Christine, you can do this, just come back, everything will be alright!”

“No it won’t, go away!” 

“You’re only a few words away from a new life! A better life!”

“I don’t want a better life! I like mine!” she shouted back, tearing off the veil from her head. “I like myself the way I am!” 

And it was true. 

She liked how she was. How she did not have to worry about what she looked like or how to do her hair that day. She didn’t have to put on makeup. All the dancers complained about these things constantly and Christine was pleased to note that she never would have to if she was invisible. She liked being able to see through her hands, her fingers never getting in the way of her sewing or when she was reading. She enjoyed thinking about walking around with no clothes on and no one knowing! In the shower she would often ponder just walking out, no towel, to test these thoughts that Angel had put inside her head.

There was no worrying about how she looked at any point in her day. She had privilege in not looking a certain way because she did not look any way at all! It was freeing to know that she didn’t have to care about it at all. She may be different looking, but she didn’t have to worry about it because no one could comment on one thing. Only that they could not see her or what clothes she was wearing that day, but she could control her choice of blouse or dress or shoes. If her face was visible she would not be able to change the way it looked. 

It was not a bad curse, in the end, to have no face at all. She had accepted her fate and herself. 

With that thought, that declaration, the curse was lifted.

When she opened her eyes it was to her father staring down at her with wide eyes.

“Christine?” 

___

The newspapers had lost interest in the story after a few weeks. The runaway invisible bride had come and gone and soon they were on to the next scandal, not even knowing that the girl they had been so obsessed with getting a picture of, was finally visible.

She had spent hours staring in the mirror at the girl looking back at her.

The first thing she had noticed were her papa’s blue eyes staring back at her. 

Her hair was brown and curly, like her mother her papa had said. Her skin was white, lips pink. Her nose was small, sloping and with a soft rounded tip. Her teeth were white and only a few of them did not sit straight, but they were not horrid to look at. Her jaw was not defined but it was not soft either. She was short, but she had always known that. 

Over and over she would make differing expressions. Furrow her brow and a notch would appear on her forehead. Smile and her cheeks would round, wrinkles forming at her eyes. Her nose wrinkled, the corners of her mouth could be pulled tight, her eyes could wink or be hooded or grow wide upon her command. 

Her body was ill proportioned, her torso being shorter than her legs by a few inches. Her boobs, which she inspected a great deal now that she could see them instead of having to guess at bra sizes from feeling and comparisons, seemed fine. Her hips were round, the bones there apparent under her skin. 

Her feet were feet, her toes all wiggled back at her when she moved them. Her fingers did the same, her palms creasing under her movements. And how odd that was, to see her skin move and stretch against her. To see her hair in the corner of her vision. To see her eyelids when she blinked! She had always had to wear a mask over her eyes when she slept and now she could find darkness every time she closed her eyes. 

She had freckles on her arms and a mole on her back. She had watched the line of her spine move, her shoulder blades, her knee caps. It was all so interesting to her despite having seen it all before on other people. But they were her bones that she could see. It was her skin and her muscles and she loved them all so much. They had been with her since birth and she was only now giving them the attention they deserved.

All and all she came to the conclusion that she was an average looking woman. But that was alright, she did not mind it at all. 

Sometimes she missed who she used to be. Especially in the beginning when she would give herself a mini heart attack every time she passed by a mirror or her limbs would come into view when she would forget herself.

She was visible. 

And yet she had to convince everyone she was who she said she was. 

Her father had been easy, he had seen her in her wedding dress lying on the floor after it had all happened. They had sat there crying together as he pressed kisses to her forehead.

“I’m so sorry, Christine,” he cried, his words blubbery.

“It’s alright, papa, it’s alright. It’s over now.”

“No, Christine!  _ One of your own kind _ . If I had only done my job as your father-”

“You didn’t know, papa, none of us did!” she hugged him back tightly. “You did everything you thought was best for me. Just...promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“You’ll allow me to make my own decisions about my life from now on?”

Her papa chuckled sadly, “I can do that. You’ve proven, time and again, that your judgement is far superior to my own.” 

A few moments later Sorelli found them. She had screamed when the information finally sunk in and squeezed the life out of Christine. They had told her to sit tight, and they would be back when their guests had all gone.

Raoul had come to see her that night and she’d had to explain everything to him. 

He took the news very hard that she did not want to marry him.

“Why not?” he asked her, his wide eyes upon hers for the first time since they had met. 

“I’m sorry, Raoul, but I...I just don’t love you in that way. The only reason I was going to marry you was because we thought you had the power to break the curse and that is not good enough.” She took his hand, “You are a wonderful man, don’t get me wrong. But you deserve someone who loves you.” 

He sighed, squeezing her hand in return as his smile finally broke through. “Thank you, Christine.”

“What for?” 

“I...I think you’re right. I was so obsessed with trying to save you that I– ” Raoul shook his head, seemingly at himself as he brought a hand up to cover his mouth as if he was reluctant to let the words go so freely. He let it fall away a moment later. “I think the only reason I wanted to marry you was because I thought it was the right thing to do.” 

She gathered him up into a hug. “Promise me you will find a girl who treats you right and who loves you.”

“I will.”

“And promise that we can still be friends.” 

He laughed, bright and lovely, “I promise.” 

“Good. I’ve missed you, de Changy.”

Meg had been much harder to convince. 

“Bullshit,” she had said when Christine had come to her door.

“Meg, it’s me.”

“But you ran away from the wedding! You didn’t even get hitched. I don’t know  _ who _ you are but if you don’t go away-” Meg had begun to shut the door. 

“I was drinking a chocolate shake when we first met!” She blurted out in a panicked rush. The door paused, only open a crack.

“...lucky guess!” 

“You use Suave shampoo!”

“So does everyone!” 

“You...You made me watch  _ Step Up _ the first night I stayed here and got really offended when I asked why everyone finds Channing Tatum so attractive!” 

Meg paused at this, squinting as she opened the door back up again. “....Christine?”

She nodded and hugged her friend. There had been more crying and Meg had held her face between her palms, commenting on how beautiful she was, how she could do her hair now, and then she gasped, clutching Chrisitne’s cheeks a bit too tightly so that her lips squished.

“You’re still going to audition next week, right?” 

Christine took hold of Meg’s wrists and gently pulled herself out of her friend’s grip so that she could speak, “I...hadn’t thought about-”

“Oh, you must, Christine! Please, you have to!” 

Madame Giry had accepted Christine’s face as soon as Meg had nodded to her and gathered up Christine in her arms and kissed her hair and congratulated her on breaking out of the damn thing herself. Christine had clutched her back and sighed in contentment. 

She moved out of her father's house the same day as Mama Valérius, leaving the man alone in the mansion to fall into the couch with a loud sigh. 

Christine, while preparing for her audition, had taken a job at a small shop to pay for her necessities since her father had already bought her a house of her own. With her permission and input, of course.

It was not in the city. It was far enough away to be isolated but not so far as to be a pain to commute by train everyday. Though, the train itself _ was _ rather a pain. She didn't mind it though. No one paid her any attention. She was just like everyone else now, after all. Visible she may have been, but it was a better camouflage than her previous self had ever been. 

A few weeks before the audition, Sorelli had found her to drop off a large envelope. She had waited until she was off the clock and at home with a cup of tea beside her to open it.

Inside was a file on an Erik Garnier, the name she recognized because Meg had so often talked about the owner of the theater. A man in a mask that had seemingly come from nowhere only a few years ago. This past year he had bought the theater in his own name, that was not Angel Campion. He had lied. What else had he told her to be fake? 

She could only speculate, but he _ was _ a musician and he had given her a voice.

It seemed only fitting that she use that voice to save him, and everyone else in that theater. 

Christine returned to her papa’s home to find the folder of music she had shoved into one of her bookcases, thankful that she hadn’t had the heart to throw it out. 

She did not sleep very well the night before the audition and could not bring herself to eat that morning. The trip to the city had wrecked her nerves to no end. She clutched the sheet music in its folder to her chest as a comfort, hoping it would settle her thumping heart. 

The walk through the spring afternoon in the city to get to the theatre had been much needed, but she had not settled in her worries by the time she had entered through the front door. Meg was there to greet her and give her compliments on her outfit she had picked. 

“You’ll knock him dead! Everyone’s been terrible so far, you’re a shoo in!” she assured Christine, guiding her back stage to sign in and get all the information she would need. Out of fear of rejection before she could even open her mouth Christine put down a false name in the hopes no one would ask any questions until after all was said and done. She was given a room to warm up in, and she went through her routine easily despite her stomach flipping over and over inside of her. 

She looked up into the mirrors that covered the back wall of the room and was happy to find herself staring back at her. She wondered, briefly, if Angel-  _ Erik _ would know it was her by her voice alone. 

Would he send her away? 

He had always said he would find her a stage to sing on. She wondered if this was what he had intended. 

“Uhm- Penelope Wilhern?” a young boy poked his head in, carrying a clipboard. She nodded and he smiled, “You’re up.”

Christine took a breath that rattled inside her lungs and picked up her folder. 

She handed the piano part to the pianist that sat in the pit. She returned to the center stage and waited for the piano to signal her in. 

It was an unorthodox and careless thought to sing such a piece of an audition. It was a solo he had written for her but had never finished due to their untimely parting. Christine had finished it herself, putting together the pieces of music and lyrics until she was satisfied. 

In truth, she was not there in the hopes of getting a job. She was there to find him and hope that he still held some sort of feelings for her that were not negative. 

She used everything he had taught her, starting with her breathing and ending with all the emotions that had been trapped inside of her all this time. She used her body, her visible body, and visible facial expressions to help her convey what she wanted to say. To showcase all that he had given her. 

She sang the song he had written for her and when she finished she breathed in under the lights of the stage, not even knowing if he was there or not. 

There was a moment of pure silence, not even the shuffle of papers to fill the room, and then there was an eruption of applause. She could hear Meg, above them all, shouting in excitement and pride. 

Christine bowed, and took her leave of the stage. She gathered the music from the pianist, as it was the only copy that she knew to exist, and exited back to the main lobby where Madame Giry, Meg, and her father were all standing waiting for her. She ran to them, hugging her father as he gave an  _ oof  _ under the force of it. Meg was next, then Madame Giry. 

“I told you, you would be perfect! Oh, you’ll be our new star this year, I’m sure of it. Won’t she, mother? You saw Erik! He was so stunned he left! No doubt to go print out your contract right now.” 

“Yes, he did look quite rattled…” Madame Giry cast her eyes toward one hallway. Christine’s heart jumped onto her throat and she shared a look with her father. “I think I will go check on him now. Please excuse me.” 

“Christine…” he started and she shushed him. 

“I know, father. That is precisely why I’m here in the first place,” she told him. “Why else would I sing that song?”

“Oh, it was so, good! I’ve never even heard it!” Meg grinned. “Although, I never really know those older songs you singers tend to audition with.” 

“Does he know?” Gustave asked, ignoring Meg’s commentary.

“I...I don’t know. I thought– thought that if I sang it, that maybe he would– ” she shook her head. “It was silly.” 

“No, Christine, not at all,” he smiled at her, bringing her hand between his own. “If he did not know you then he will surely recognize that your voice is still the best.” 

“Are you two talking about Erik?” Meg looked between them. 

“Meg,” Christine stated, turning to her friend, “there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Christine,” Madame Giry called from across the lobby causing everyone to jump, even Gustave. 

“Uh oh,” Meg whispered. “You’d better go. Tell me later?”

Christine nodded, sharing one last look with her father, and hastily made her way across the lobby until she reached Madame Giry. The woman said nothing more, only turned to walk down the hall. Christine followed as she was taken down corridors she had never seen before and up a flight of stairs until she stood before a door. 

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Madame Giry said. Christine nodded and reached for the handle, stopping short when Madame Giry touched her hand. “Be careful, Christine. He is...not like most men.”

At this, Christine smiled, “I know.” 

“I don’t mean in the physical sense. He’s-”

“I know, Madame. I’ve seen his heart.” She lifted the folder she held in his hands. “He’s given it to me once before.” 

Madame Giry nodded and released her, stepping back down the hall the way they had come. Christine waited until she was out of sight before opening the door. 

She found herself stepping into an office. It was not like the rest of the theater, that had so much light and life. This office was quiet, almost deafeningly so. The sun, on its slow descent, was spilling in through the East facing windows, the slats of the blinds cutting it up into rows of beams. There were also a few lamps strewn around, but nothing overhead. 

The floor was all carpets and on top was a hodgepodge of furniture that only went together due to their age. All dark stained wood, save for the couch that was a plush dark red leather. Bookcases lined the walls, reminding her of her own rooms back at home. The desk that sat inside was large and was covered in folders, binders, papers splayed about. A laptop sat near the edge closest to the chair on the other side. 

What’s more was that there was a grand piano inside. 

It was where he was sitting and stood behind as she shut the door. 

“Hello,” she found herself saying as she entered. For the first time she felt self conscious with how she looked with her visible body because his eyes were so piercing. Even in this level of lighting she could see them upon her, his gold eyes that she had not realized she had missed so much until she stood before them again. “Madame Giry said you wanted to see me?” 

His eyes narrowed at her. Perhaps pretending to not know him had been a mistake, but she could not help but to toy with him. He had done this to her, had lied to her all this time. 

She knew why, of course, but she still felt like she needed proof. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice hesitant but it was his voice! The one she had cried over for days, had ached to hear again but could never bring herself to rewatch any of the security footage of their time together knowing that it would not be the same as this. The source. He was still tall and thin. His hair was more unruly than she remembered and gone was the man who had commanded the room around him. He looked nervous, as if someone like her could intimidate him to such a point. At one time it had seemed impossible but now, with her confidence in tact, it wasn’t. 

The rest of him was still as she remembered, though. His dress shirt was crisp, though he wore nothing over it. His dress pants were correctly creased, being held up by a sleek black pair of braces, and his shoes were shiny. His hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders were squared. His mask was in place. 

She gave him another moment to continue. He did not. 

“Have I done something wrong, Mr. Garnier?” she asked, taking another step forward. She could see his jaw clench. Oh, she was enjoying this very much. She smiled as she approached him, stopping a few paces away to keep herself at bay. 

“The song you sang…”

“Yes?”

“Where did you hear it?” 

“It was given to me.” 

“By who?”

“You,” she replied and felt something stir inside her at the sound of his intake of breath. 

“Christine,” and she had missed that. He had only ever called her that the day she’d ordered him to leave. Now he said it with wonder and such pain. His voice could hold so much and in only one word. It made something between her ribs twinge with pain. His hand came up as if to touch her but he stopped himself, snatching his hand back. “Christne, I didn’t have the power to break the curse...But it seems your Vicomte did. I suppose a congratulations are in order.”

“He didn’t do this for me.” She laughed a little, at herself mostly. “Turns out I had the power to break it all along.” 

“Then you are not-”

“Married?” She smiled, and held up her left hand, finger wiggling, as proof. “No.” 

They sat there staring at one another for a long time until Christine broke the moment by moving. Slowly, she reached her hands forwards, to place on either side of his mask. He staggered back, his leg pumping into the piano bench behind him. 

“You said that you would remove it for me when I removed mine,” Christine said, voice soft as she followed after him. She placed a hand on his side to steady him but it seemed to make him less stable than before as he quivered beneath her touch. “And if I’ve been keeping score correctly, I’m beating you by one.” 

“...you will not want to be standing this close,” he told her, hesitant. 

“Erik,” she sighed. “I do not care what’s under there.” 

He chuckled at her and she furrowed her brows at him. 

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re frowning,” he told her, his hand coming up to point at her mouth. “It’s very fitting. Your whole visage, it’s very fitting to your voice.”

“You think so?” 

“Everything about you is perfect, Christine. Never allow anyone to let you think otherwise.”

She snorted, “You should have said that when we first met.”

“I will regret that I did not.”

“That’s okay, I wouldn’t have believed you then anyways.” Christine’s eyes flickered between his. “Erik.” 

“I know, I just...do not want to lose you again so soon.” 

“You won’t. I promise.”

“You shouldn’t promise that, not before you’ve seen it. I told you, Christine, you should be content to live in your ignorance of what my mask hides.” 

“Please, Erik. I’ve accepted who you were, what you did,” she moved her hand to his chest, feeling his heart thump back in an answer. “You have to know by now that whatever's under there is not going to change the way I see you.”

“See me?” 

“Well, now that I know who you really are. My teacher, the person who saved this theater, a wonderful composer, and a brilliant man.” Christine tilted her head at him, watching his eyes as he stared back at her with wonder. “I will not run. I can’t promise my reaction, so you shouldn’t have waited for me to be visible to do this. But, hey, you’re the one that wanted to reject me, so-”

“I did not think that I could-”

“I know, I know, I’m just teasing you.” She smiled, wrinkling her nose at him. When he finally smiled back she allowed herself to become serious again, psyching herself up for what she was about to see. If it really was as horrific as he said, then she would need to keep her emotions in check, for his sake. 

If he had been able to stay away from her all this time thinking that he was giving her what he wanted then she could keep herself from doing anything harmful to him when he showed her his face. 

Slowly, he removed the mask, keeping his eyes closed, unable to bear her reaction. 

And, yeah, okay, so it was  _ pretty _ terrible. 

But Christine managed to stay quiet, keeping any scream or gasp of horror inside her lungs until they suffocated. The lack of a nose was what really seemed to do it in, nothing but a hole in his face that, together with the sharp cheekbones and jaw, made him look like the skull beneath his thin layer of skin. No part of it was easy to look at but she forced herself to. She noticed the scars then, the largest one running from his forehead down across his eye, letting her know that no part of him had been safe from the man who had kept him prisoner. Her heart wept for all the pain he’d had to endure over these years and she wished, at once, that their fates had been reversed so that she could have harbored the burdens he carried with him. 

When her hand, that she willed to not shake, touched his cheek, his skin was surprisingly soft against the pads of her fingers, he finally opened his eyes. They settled on her, as they had that day she had revealed herself to him. 

“You’re still here.” 

The words made her smile, an echo of her own astonishment all those months ago. 

“I’m here. Thank you for showing me.” She wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him forward into a hug, tucking her face into his shoulder. It took him a moment to relax against her, his rigid posture softening as his arms returned the embrace. She smiled against his shirt and breathed him in. His face was buried in her hair, her brown curly hair, as he did the same. 

“Christine,” he ventured to say, and she pulled back to look at him, “what happens now?” 

She hummed, thoughtful, pursing her lips. “I think that’s up for both of us to decide, right?” 

“The position is yours if you want it,” Erik told her. “I had every intention of bringing you here after– after you had married de Changy and would feel comfortable starting your career.” 

“Oh.” She blinked. “Good.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, head cocking to the side. “You had doubts?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve been scared you would have sent me packing as soon as you figured out it was me.” 

His hand came up to brush her jaw, the touch so light and gentle that she had to press back against him to feel satisfied. Spurred on by this Erik brushed her hair behind her shoulder to cup her face in his palm, “I would be a fool to turn you away. Your voice is perfection, you’re an angel incarnated on this Earth.” 

She blushed, cheeks hot at his compliments. “Thank you. I’ll try not to let everyone down.”

“You could never, Christine,” he insisted, brushing his thumb over her cheek. Her breath hitched under his touch. It had been so long since she had touched him, since he had touched her, and yet everyday she had longed for it. For him. Even when she had tried to force him from her heart it had insisted on keeping him there. It had angered her back then, but now she could only be grateful. 

“I love you,” she told him and felt him falter against her. He leaned away from her, shaking his head.

“After everything I did– to you and– you _ can _ not-”

“But I do. I never stopped. I do love you, Erik.” Her voice was gentle, the whisper of cloth shifting against skin. She said it again, confidence growing, “I love you.” 

Tears made his eyes grow glassy until he was forced to blink, allowing them to spill over onto his cheeks and she brushed them away, not even hesitating to touch his skin. He flinched against her touch but she persisted. When he opened his eyes she was there looking at him, waiting. 

“Christine,” he breathed, voice almost melodic. “I love you.” 

“And will you let me love you, Erik? No more pushing me away because you think I want something or someone else?” 

“I don’t think I could, even if it was the right thing to do. Not after this,” he said, his touch against her more firm now. “I would sooner die.” 

“Good. I mean– not the dying part, of course. But...good.” 

He smiled and her eyes were drawn to his lips. They were thin, barely there, but she had known that since the first day she had seen him. It was the only part of his face the mask had permitted her to see besides his eyes. All those hours she had spent staring at them and now they were right there in front of her for the taking. So she did, pulling him down by the collar and lifting herself up on her toes until they were fitted against her own.

His lack of reaction left it awkward and stiff, all one sided. Carefully, she pulled away to judge his reaction. He was looking at her in wide-eyed surprise and she couldn’t believe, after everything they had been through, after all they had just said, that a kiss would render him this shocked. 

“Christine,” he whimpered and she watched his eyes track her tongue as she swiped it out to wet her lips. “Can...may I–?”

She nodded, pulling him back toward her already. This kiss was less chaste, more pressure. It lingered as he moved his lips against her, the pair of them inexperienced and trying to learn as they went. He was quicker than her in understanding but she was far braver. While he worked to perfect the beginning steps, she moved on without a thought. Her tongue met his lips, forcing a sound to register in his chest. It sent a thrill through her, heat pooling below her stomach. 

His hand on her jaw moved down, fingers trailing along her shoulder, gently dotting at her exposed collar bone. 

When his mouth opened up for her she pressed forwards. He keened when her hand found purchase in his hair. His arm snaked around her waist, stapling her torso against his. 

Finally, she pulled away, the pair of them panting into each other’s mouths. She grinned up at him, eyes hooded as she pushed his hair away from his forehead and continued to brush her fingers through it. 

After a moment, she asked, “Do you use Suave?” 

___

Rehearsals were tiresome things, especially at the hands of Erik, who wanted nothing less than perfection. And with Madame Giry at his side there was no relief from the work that was ahead of them. There were so many things that went into a show that Christine had not even thought about before.

Costumes, lighting, sets. How all of those things would need to be changed or repositioned throughout the show. Blocking was a beast in itself and to put it together with all of her lines and songs to keep in mind, she had thought she was going to die before they even made it to their opening night. 

But, to her great surprise, she had made it there. Erik, Madame Giry, Meg, and the rest of the theater helped her get there, of course. Erik most of all, though. At night, when he found her fretting and tireless from anxiety he would help her rehearse in their living room until she would finally collapse into his arms in a heap of exhaustion. Other times he would sing her to sleep, running soothing touches across her skin until she could no longer keep her eyes open. And she knew he was tired, too. There was so much he’d had to do. Advertising, planning, selling, budgeting, renovating, and she knew the list did not end there as his hand had touched every single part of this production. But he rarely allowed her to guide him back to bed without apprehension.

It had taken a lot of convincing on her part to get him to move in with her, let alone sleep in the same bed, but after she had learned he still slept in the basement of the theater she had all but moved him in herself. 

The stunned look on his face when she had invited him over under unassuming pretenses of making him dinner only to ask if he wanted to live there with her had given her great satisfaction. But not as satisfied as she had been later that night, when they had fallen onto her bed, their clothes forgotten on the floor, as their bodies pressed together perfectly, just as she knew they would. 

Now, she was at the theater watching as everyone was running about with last minute details to fix. Lost shoes, makeup touch ups, forgotten cell phones. It was all so chaotic and yet she loved the feelings it gave her. Those fluttering butterflies that were trapped inside her stomach and the rapid tempo her heart beat only kicked up the amount of adrenaline racing through her veins. 

The only thing that worried her, really, was that Erik was nowhere to be found. Meg had come by to see her, insisting that she would be great and that the costume did wonders for her figure. Madame Giry had followed, reminding her of where to put her microphone and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her papa was sitting in her dressing room with her, constantly remarking on how proud he was of her. 

But she had not seen Erik all day. Even waking up that morning she had only found a note from him saying that he had come to the theater early to prepare. 

When the 20 minute warning came over the speakers her papa had left to go take his seat with Sorelli, Raoul, Nadir, and Madame Giry in the box Eric had ensured would be only for them. She returned to the small couch that was in her dressing room only to stand soon after, pacing back and forth. Where  _ was  _ he? she wondered. Surely nothing bad had happened to him? Oh, but what if it had! What if he had been run over by a bike or car this morning and no one had even known? She had just assumed he was lurking about somewhere! 

She couldn’t go out on stage not knowing where he was or if he was alright. Christine went to her door, startling when a knock came from the other side. She tore it open to find him standing there, smiling, as if nothing were even the matter.

“Hello, my dear, are you ready?” 

She let out a breath and threw her arms around him, feeling silly for having worried as much as she had but needed to feel him against her all the same. Christine knew she had startled him by the way he stiffened against her touch. He pulled away from her, guiding her back into the dressing room and out of the hallway. 

“Christine, is everything alright? Are you-?” 

“I haven’t seen or heard from you since this morning!” she hissed at him. “I thought…”

“I’m sorry, there was just so much left to do before...but that’s no excuse. I’m so sorry, Christine,” he said, looking very guilty and she felt awful then. She didn’t need to be angry with him. Letting out a sharp breath she took his hands in hers, feeling his fingers curl tentatively around hers. 

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you. I was only worried is all,” Christine gave him a soft smile. “I didn’t think I was going to see you before I had to go. You’re cutting it very close, love.” 

“I did not want to distract you. It seems my intentions to stay away have backfired.” 

Christine pulled him down by his tie into a kiss that had her nerves buzzing. It was adrenaline filled, both of their anticipation and hard work over the last few months pouring out into the contact. It was deepened with ease, her only discomfort was the hard lines of his mark that cut into her skin. She so hated that thing. Kissing him in their home was easy, she could do it so freely because she had convinced him the mask was not necessary there. But he always wore it in public, even here in his own theater. Right now she did not care, only needed to feel his touch on her to keep her grounded, to keep her from spilling out across the floor like a cut string of pearls. 

There was a sort of desperation there, too. She could feel it in the way his hands gripped her waist so tightly, the way he pressed his mouth against her so insistently. But she was desperate for him, too, his touches always soothed her, always brought her some sort of comfort and peace. Finally, they had to pull away to breath against one another. He smiled, eyes warm and loving as he ran his thumb under her bottom lip. 

They both looked up as the call for places came and went. Slowly their eyes found one another again. She knew he had seen the worry on her own. 

“You are a star, Christine. Everyone will know this soon enough.”

“I feel as though I’m going to be sick.”

“Even if you were, your voice would be the best thing that has ever taken the stage on this Earth.” 

She blushed a lovely shade of pink, smiling at the flattery. Any time she had panicked during rehearsals or at home he had been there with never ending praise to talk her down from backing out of this. He had made sure this was what she wanted, having worried over the fame that would once again be attached to her name and new face. But she knew that it was, of course it was. Now people would know her name for her, not a curse given to her by her ancestors. 

“Come, my dear, you mustn’t be late.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and then guided her to her place in the wings. With one final hug she reluctantly allowed him to go join their friends and her papa, watching his tall figure until it disappeared from her sight. 

The lights in the theater began to blink slowly and the crowd hushed. 

Christine breathed and took her first step onto the stage. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! I really have no excuse for this thing, never did I think I would be writing about these two in the year of 2020. I just recently rewatched Penelope, since it was free on youtube lmao, and the whole mirror conversations reminded me of Erik and Christine! but I knew I couldn't give Erik the role of Penelope and had to come up with something different for the curse. I hope it made,,, any amount of sense,,,   
> again, thank you to anyone who even gave a glance to this, and stay well!


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